


Empire of Dust

by droid_girl



Series: Any World But This [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Melodrama, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-02-05 08:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 107,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/droid_girl/pseuds/droid_girl
Summary: (Buffy the Vampire X-over-ish: Buffy Concepts in GoT Verse)Sansa Stark is called as a Vampire Slayer. In Westeros. Jaime Lannister, naturally, feels a draw towards a fellow, suffering warrior, battling her own internal battle between what she wants out of life, vs. what the world needs."For all of a second, the rest of the world disappeared entirely; he was not the much derided Kingslayer...he was simply Jaime, and she was only Sansa, and the two of them were all that mattered as they grinned at each other."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The story starts before Season 1 of GoT. There is copious Jaime/Sansa UST, Slow Burn, etc. And enough melodrama to fill five boatloads of melodrama. Also, shippy AF.
> 
> Sansa has been aged up.
> 
> Warning: Super slow pacing by my standards.  
> Second Warning: There are likely a billion canonical errors in this, so forgive me :)

The day Sansa was called, she had spent most of the afternoon working on a new dress she had been sewing for weeks. The lace and the ruffles had been embroidered _just so_ , while the colour of the material complemented the scarlet of her hair like a charm.

All she had to do was unpick a few stitches in a corner, and it would have been ready. Plucking at the offending length of thread she wanted gone, Sansa pulled - and ripped the entire dress apart, rendering the lovely purple coloured material in her hands, into nothing more than tattered rags.

“Oh Sansa, all your hard work!” Jeyne cried out in sympathetic distress.

Septa Mordane, on the other hand, surveyed the scene in uncharacteristic silence. The eldest Stark daughter stared at the shreds of material in her lap, trying to understand what just happened. All she had been attempting to do, was to fix a stitch she had sewn by mistake. 

“You look tired Sansa. Perhaps it’s time you took some rest.” their chaperone said quietly. Looking up, Sansa met the older woman’s eyes and thought she saw an oddly wistful shadow lingering there. The second passed, and suddenly, she was looking at her old Septa.

“Go on.” the woman reached out and plucked the ruined material from the disappointed girl’s hands.

“But I’m not tired,” Sansa found herself insisting. 

“I won’t have you stabbing yourself with a needle. Don’t make me repeat myself.” Septa Mordane’s voice was growing impatient.

Irritated, Sansa picked up her skirt and swept off to her chambers, where she settled in her bed, chafing at being treated like a child. To her own surprise however, she began drifting off to sleep in short order. Perhaps her Septa had seen something she didn’t.

It wasn’t long before the dreams started.

***

She was walking through a forest covered in snow, and it was bitterly cold. Though her body was covered in furs, the roaring, stabbing wind pierced through her flesh like a thousand knives. In one hand, she held a wooden spear, in the other, a dragonglass dagger. 

But she could not let herself be distracted by the chill, no matter how much it hurt to even breathe. The enemy was here, she could sense it.

Something moved in the darkness, and her instincts sang out in time with it. Out of the shadows, a figure stepped out.

There was something wrong with the woman’s face, was Sansa’s first, terrified thought. Quite outside her own volition, the body she occupied raised its spear and plunged it deep into the lunging creature’s chest. Yellow eyes widened in shock, and the thing’s body exploded into dust.

Behind her, she could hear more of them approaching… 

…the scene faded, and now she found herself in a great hall. Somewhere close by, her father…no not her father. That was just the role the both of them played when they were in society. He spoke softly with her would-be suitor, threatening him subtly even as she stalked her own prey. Hidden in the folds of her dress, Sansa could feel the rough surface of the wooden spike she favoured.

Without meaning to, she caught sight of herself in a glass; the style of her dress was ornate and foreign. The eldest Stark daughter thought she remembered seeing it in a book once, in Maester Luwin’s little library. That wasn’t what was shocking however - the face reflected back at her was not her own. 

The girl who stared back at her was perhaps, a few years older. Her skin was dusky, and her eyes were a rich, dark brown. Full sensuous lips were pulled into a puzzled grimace as she stared at her reflection in confusion.

Something moved in the shadows behind a heavy curtain, followed by the unmistakable noise of a soft, pain filled whimper. 

Returning her attention to the matter at hand, she moved as quickly as her clothes and her manners would allow her. Stepping forwards, she pushed aside the curtain hiding the small alcove away from the rest of the assembled host. The sight that greeted Sansa made her want to recoil in horror as she watched the creature ripping into the throat of the young serving boy.

“Slayer,” the creature hissed, lifting its ugly, ridged face, its yellow eyes shining by the light of the lamps. 

Twisting her lips into a hungry smile, she stepped forwards. Her weapon was at the ready, and her body was already aching for the dance to come…

***

“Sansa.” someone was calling her, shaking her awake.

Blue eyes snapped open. Someone shifted to Sansa’s right, and without thinking, her hand shot up and grabbed at the figure beside her. 

“Stop it, you’re hurting me!” Arya screeched, trying to wrench her wrist out of her sister’s hold. 

Fully awake and aware, the older sister released her younger sibling immediately.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?” she asked, pushing her body off the bed and scrambling to her feet. 

Arya looked at her with curious dark eyes as she rubbed at her wrist; she looked almost impressed as she regarded her older sister. 

“What were you dreaming of?” the girl asked. 

“What?” Sansa asked, hoping her cheeks were not turning red.

“You were crying out in your sleep. I came to fetch you for supper.” Arya continued, moving to step closer to her sister, now that she had deemed her harmless enough. 

“Girls, do stop dawdling. You’re keeping your Lord Father waiting.” 

Looking over at the open door, the girls found Septa Mordane eyeing them with her usual, dour expression. With a strange sense of relief, Sansa hurried towards the great hall, straightening her hair and her clothing as she did so.

***

The dreams would not stop. Sansa awoke in the mornings, feeling as if her body had been forced through gauntlet after gauntlet, tested and tried over and over.

Sometimes, she found herself in foreign plains, tracking monstrous things that didn’t even begin to look human. Other times, she found herself in strange cities, crawling through reeking muck and human waste, seeking blood-sucking terrors that dwelled in the filth.

Often, she found herself dying. Horrible, painful deaths, blurred images of loved ones she had never once met, forever carved somewhere deep in her memory. 

“Sansa sweetling, why don’t you go speak with Maester Luwin, see if he has anything for what ails you?” her mother asked distractedly one morning as they broke their fast. Rickon, her youngest brother, had somehow gotten oatcakes in his hair, a feat that occupied most of Lady Stark’s attention.

Nodding in exhaustion, Sansa avoided Arya’s inquisitive stare. Thankfully, her brothers and her father were too busy discussing details for an upcoming hunt to notice what the womenfolk were speaking of. 

Quietly, she excused herself and made her way to the Maester’s chambers. As she entered the dark room, filled wall to wall with leather bound tomes, she found herself looking at both the old man and her Septa, both of whom gazed at her expectantly.

Everything about the scene felt inevitable.

“It’s time Sansa.” the Maester she’d known since she was old enough to speak said. There was heartbreak in his eyes. “Will you walk with us to the crypts?”

“Are you asking?” Her voice was older than her fifteen years. “Or are you telling?”

He bowed his head slightly, even as Septa Mordane rose to her feet. “It is time for you to fulfill your destiny.” 

A whisper of a phrase that had been haunting every last dream echoed in her mind just then. 

_Valar Morghulis._

***

Downwards they descended, into the shadowy depths of the crypts of Winterfell. They passed the Kings of Old, and Lyanna Stark herself; upon her aunt’s cold, stone cheeks, Sansa fancied she caught a glimpse of frozen tears. 

Deeper and deeper they went, to levels she knew existed, but had never once accessed. The darkness should have scared her, she thought to herself as they walked, yet there was a strange familiarity to it. Their path was lit only by the torch Luwin held above his head. 

“Who goes there? Please…help me.” a voice pleaded in the dark. Walking into a dusty, round chamber, the Maester and the Septa lit several sconces in the enclosed space. 

A young man was bound to a post in the middle of the room, his wrists held fast by thick and heavy chains. The black clothes he wore from head to toe betrayed him for what he truly was - a brother of the Night’s Watch. 

His skin was pale from having been kept away from sunlight, though Sansa noted, he really was rather handsome. Grey eyes looked imploringly at her, begging for release. Brown curls framed his boyish features, unkempt and dirty. 

“Please my lady, please help me. I was abducted, and given a tincture to force sleep upon me. When I awoke, I found myself trapped in this dungeon.” he rasped in misery. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you sense it?” Luwin turned to Sansa. “Do you know what it is you are in the presence of?”

“I…” she shut her eyes, wishing she could lie. Her instincts however, were utterly on fire. There was something very wrong with the man before her, something that made her blood boil and reach for a weapon she did not carry on her person. “What must I do?”

“You already know.” Luwin said, nodding at Septa Mordane, who pressed an object into the girl’s right hand. Looking down, she saw that she held a sliver of sharpened wood. 

The chained creature grew silent as he observed to the exchange. Already, his act of helpless ignorance was fading as malice flooded his wide, beautiful eyes. 

“So she’s your new soldier is she?” he spat. “Some high born chit of a girl. How long do you think she’s going to last then?”

“Take the stake, and plunge it into its heart.” Luwin commanded softly, his eyes never leaving Sansa’s face as her fingers curled around the weapon. 

“Better if you unchain me and let me finish her now. I’ll promise, it’ll be quick and merciful.” Ridges appeared on his visage where there had been none before. Grey eyes she had found so lovely, turned into a putrid yellow.

Inhuman teeth, sharp as the teeth of the Direwolf on the Stark Sigil, bared menacingly in her direction. 

“Do not listen to its empty threats.” Septa Mordane warned. “It will only distract you.”

“Vampire.” Sansa said at last, giving name to the creature. In her dreams, she had fought monsters like him, night after night after night. Raising her stake, she stepped forwards, forcing herself to be unafraid. 

“Slayer.” he spat in recognition. “Do it. Finish it.”

Heat and rage suddenly flooded her veins and guided her movements. Lifting her arm, Sansa swept forwards and forced the pointy end of the stake into the creature’s chest…

When it was over, when Sansa found herself staring at nothing more than a pile of dust, she could hear the old Maester begin to speak, reciting verses as if from memory.

“Into every generation a Slayer is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer…”

 

***

“This is boring. I’d much rather be down in the yard.” Arya complained again as she slowly destroyed a length of wool. 

At their feet, Lady and Nymeria gambolled cheerily, yelping and whimpering as they nipped at each other. 

_She would rather her whole life were spent making dresses and braiding her hair_ , Sansa thought silently as she tied off a knot. _She’d rather spend her days listening to pretty songs and dreaming of a golden prince who was hers, and hers alone._

“I’ll never understand why you’d prefer to play with sharp objects and dirty weapons.” she asked instead at her younger sister, holding up her handiwork. Close by, Jeyne coo-ed appropriately as she observed the intricate embroidery Sansa had committed onto the fabric. 

It had been a year since she had been called, and since then, not only had she flowered into a woman, but her newfound strength seemed to increase by the day. 

By night, she spent her time in the empty crypts, learning to wield all matter of weaponry - when she wasn’t traversing the dark Wolf’s Wood, seeking for that which would harm the living. It had astounded her at first, the things that crept in the shadows, waiting to leap out at anything that breathed. 

But what continued to shock her, was the ease in which she dispatched every last disfigured thing that meant to harm her. 

_The old Sansa who had loved her songs and her stories of golden knights and sweet ladies - she would have hated the Slayer. ___

__“What if I don’t want to answer this calling?” she asked plaintively that first day as she dropped her wooden stake, backing herself against the dusty walls of the crypt._ _

__“It’s your destiny.” Septa Mordane had stated simply. “If you don’t fight for the living, who will?”_ _

__“Surely there must be another way. This is ridiculous. I’m just one girl. Wouldn’t Robb, or even Jon be more suited to this?” she demanded._ _

__The Maester had sighed. “I understand this is hard on your Sansa, but this isn’t a choice you get to make.”_ _

__“We shall see what my father has to say about this.” Sansa made to turn away._ _

__“Child, do you think I wanted this for you?” Luwin thundered after her, forcing her steps to a halt. “I prayed night and day that you would never be called. Let them take any other girl, I had asked like a selfish wretch. Leave this one - let her live, and marry, let her bear children and let her die at a ripe old age. I have loved you since the day you were born, like you were one of my own, as I have loved all your siblings.”_ _

__“If you love me as you so claim, how could you ask this of me?” she asked, shutting her eyes._ _

___All of this, all of it had to be a nightmare_ , her mind insisted._ _

__“It is not us who have asked it of you.” her Septa said patiently. “Sansa, you must not tell anyone of this. Not a one. You would put your family in danger if they knew - they would die to protect you, every last one of them.”_ _

__Whipping around, for a brief moment, the girl experienced a horrible urge to turn her new strength against these two. Already, she knew they would not last a minute at her hands._ _

__As her eyes met her Septa’s however, as she caught sight of the unshed tears threatening to spill down the older woman’s cheeks, something hurt inside of her heart._ _

__“That is perfect Sansa,” her Septa said in the present, studying her needlework with pride._ _

__“Thank you.” the young woman said modestly, as was expected of her in the presence of others. “I think I shall wear this during the royal visit.”_ _

__Her Septa frowned at her, but Sansa didn’t care. Sensing her mood, Lady bounded over and licked at her hands._ _

__As far as the Slayer was concerned, she was going to claw her way out of the hell she was finding herself in._ _

___What could be worse_ , she wondered, _than being forced to battle the fell creatures of the dark, night after night?__ _

__“Sansa, will you stay back a moment?” the Septa asked as the girls all made to leave the room as late afternoon gave way to early evening._ _

__“Is she in trouble?” Arya asked almost gleefully, causing her older sister to frown at her in annoyance._ _

__“Run along Arya, I’m sure your mother has a task for you,”_ _

__Realizing she wasn’t going to get a satisfactory answer, Arya sniffed disdainfully and dashed off, with Nymeria bounding eagerly after her._ _

__“Cruel irony.” Sansa observed flatly. “That she should want to wield the sword, while I wish to spend all my days sewing.”_ _

__“Lady Sansa…” the Septa paused. “The Maester and I haven’t spoken to you of this, but the goal has always been for you to leave Winterfell.”_ _

__Blue eyes stared in disbelief. As if sensing that her mistress was distressed, Lady’s ears twitched as the direwolf climbed to her feet, before turning a menacing growl upon the Septa._ _

__“Don’t look so surprised.” the woman sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re hoping that this royal visit will be your escape route from Winterfell. From _Slaying_. You needn’t have worried. You are absolutely going to King’s Landing. The city is a cesspool of evil and unrest. Did you imagine that we would keep you up here to slay the occasional vampire?”_ _

__“Father would never agree to let me go to the capital if I told him I no longer wished to do so.” Sansa stated, wishing she could have denied that indeed, escaping from Winterfell had been something she had been working hard towards._ _

__How many suppers had she spent wheedling and begging her parents that she ought to depart with the royal entourage when they inevitably left? How many dresses had she been tailoring, the better to show that she was suited to court life in King’s Landing?_ _

__“Foolish girl. Do you think we haven’t got people in the Red Keep whispering in the ears of the King since the day you were called?” she asked. There was nothing triumphant in her tone, nothing mocking. There was only the ever present wistfulness. “Oh Sansa, when will you learn? Your life has been planned for you from the start, on the chance that you would become more than just a Potential. As we speak, your father has already received the request for your hand. You are to marry the Prince himself, dear girl.”_ _

__“How very considerate of the Citadel to make such arrangements on my behalf.” Sansa said bitterly. “Men I’ve never met, conspiring with the people I placed my trust in, paving the way for my every step.”_ _

__Picking up the material she had so painstakingly worked on, Sansa deliberately ripped at it with all her strength again and again. Septa Mordane leapt to her feet and cried out in distress as ragged tatters fell all around them._ _

__“It doesn’t matter does it?” Sansa asked almost cruelly, refusing to let her tears fall. “None of _this_ matters.” _ _

__With one last haughty look, the Slayer fled._ _

__***_ _

__The day before they were to leave Winterfell had been hard, not least because she had to play the part of the sweet and delighted girl, freshly betrothed to the crown Prince himself. Someday, she would rule by his side, she had been told. The Seven Kingdoms would fall at their feet, and she would bear the next generation of Baratheon heirs._ _

__It had taken every iota of restraint on Sansa’s part, not to inform every person present, that it was unlikely she would live to see her nineteenth nameday. Slayers, she had learned, did not live long; when one died, another was immediately called._ _

__Her one moment of satisfaction came when her Father had announced that he was to replace the late Jon Arryn as the Hand of the King, which ensured that her father would not only depart Winterfell with her, but remain close by her side. While she hadn’t at first seen the significance in this news, judging from how the Septa and the Maester had both blanched in distress, she gathered that this was not what they had desired in the least._ _

__That was all it took to bring a beautific smile to her lips._ _

__“Oh Father,” she had smiled sweetly. “It gladdens my heart to know you will always be with me.”_ _

__Lord Stark had in turn, cast her a strained smile, before turning a worried look towards her Lady Mother._ _

__It almost made having to leave an injured Bran behind bearable. _Almost_._ _

__“If they find out what I am, they would have my head, for surely, I will be as monstrous to them, as the creatures I hunt.” Sansa had muttered to Maester Luwin that night. Maester and Slayer trudged through the Wolf’s Wood, returning from yet another messy hunt._ _

__Septa Mordane had not accompanied the two of them, occupied with packing and concealing the Slayer’s little armoury._ _

__It had been months since Sansa had stopped wearing dresses during patrols; to no one’s surprise, blood and grave dirt ruined silks and satins, while skirts made movement tricky. Instead, the young woman had begun to garb herself in Robb’s old clothing._ _

__“Let us pray they will not never know.”_ _

__“And how am I expected to keep on slaying, while performing my Queenly duties? I daresay, even with my ability to heal quickly, I don’t see how my sweet Prince won’t see me covered in blood at some point - what then shall I tell him? And have any of you considered what it would mean the day he gets me with child?”_ _

__“Do not continue to labour under the assumption that in being chosen, we at the Citadel or the Sept had any voice on the matter. I will say it again: I would that it had been any other girl who had been called.” Luwin shook his head bitterly, “Sansa, the Gods have seen fit to choose you. All we can do is live with their choice as best we can.”_ _

__“Aye. And I suppose the chances of me living to see motherhood grow slimmer by the day,” she laughed mirthlessly. “Soon it shall be the burden of some other poor girl, who exists to serve the whims of the Sept and the Citadel,”_ _

__“I hate that you have become embittered so soon.” Luwin shook his head as they approached the hidden passageway leading back into Winterfell._ _

__“What did you expect? That I would be grateful to be enslaved to a calling I had never asked for?” Sansa asked in disbelief._ _

__Luwin said nothing as they entered the castle grounds. He could barely meet her gaze as they emerged in the courtyards of her home._ _

"Sansa, for what it's worth - I am truly sorry." he called after her when she would have retired for the night. "This was not what I wanted for you." 

The Slayer turned to look upon the wretched old man. There was a time when she would have gladly told anyone who would listen that she trusted the man before her with her life. The Maester owed his allegiance not to the Citadel, Lord Stark had always declared, but to the Starks. As far as every member of her family was concerned, the man might as well have _been_ family.

__Grunting in disgust, the Slayer turned on her heel and stalked towards her little training space instead._ _

__In the deepest watches of the night, Sansa spent her last hours in Winterfell hacking her frustrations away, upon a straw man in an abandoned barn behind the kennels. When at last she had destroyed the wretched thing, the Slayer sunk against a moldy wall. Staring hopelessly into space, she considered the web she had inadvertently found herself caught in._ _

__However, just as she was about to fall utterly into an abyss from which she would never emerge, Sansa caught sight of a flash of gold outside the doorway to the broken barn. Frowning curiously, she tilted her head…_ _

__To her surprise, Sansa found Jaime Lannister._ _

__***_ _

__Riding past the gates of Winterfell with Septa Mordane to her left, and Lady to her right, the girl found to her chagrin that she still had no answer, no means of escaping the snare of her calling._ _

__“Whatever it is that so troubles you, I suggest you let it go.” The Septa murmured. “Your betrothed approaches.”_ _

_Joffrey. Sweet Joffrey_ , she thought as she studied his handsome face. The boy had been nothing but the picture of chivalry and generosity. Yet here she was, deceiving him. And his mother - the picture of womanly grace, the epitome of beauty and loveliness…

 _If they only knew what they were accepting into their family,_ she thought, smiling her most charming smile. 

_They would all turn in horror from the monster she truly was._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a new hobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably serious grammatical issues.

To say that he was glad that he was about to depart Winterfell would have been a severe understatement, Jaime thought as he wandered through the bleak castle grounds. The hour was late, but sleep evaded him nonetheless. 

It was his thoughts that would not let him rest. It was the deeds of recent days that would not release him from their relentless hold.

Much as Jaime did not regret his part in Bran Stark’s predicament - for ultimately, what mattered to him was Cersei, her safety, and the children they shared in secret - it did not mean that the sight of the broken tower looming over Winterfell brought him any comfort. 

Far from it. 

At the end of it, Jaime was not the Mad King. He was aware of what he did even as he was doing it…and he was utterly aware of the horrific reality of his actions. Somewhere deep inside, his soul was still crying out in anguish at the memory of the boy’s terrified countenance as he plummeted towards the hard ground below.

But what were his choices? Cersei’s crime of adultery, never mind that she had committed it with her brother of all people, was an act of treason, punishable by death. Moreover, if the siblings had been exposed, the situation would doubtless, have cast suspicion on the legitimacy of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen’s birth.

It was one thing for him to be punished - the Kingslayer had no expectations that he would receive any sort of forgiveness whatsoever. Likely, the King would have him drawn and quartered - and he would enjoy watching it as Jaime screamed his last. 

The thought of his sister, and indeed, his children suffering however, that he could not bear. Even the thought of Joffrey being put to the executioner’s blade - the boy whom he often wished was _not_ of his seed - made him sick inside. 

No matter the fact that Bran Stark was an innocent, Jaime repeated silently to himself as he stalked the grounds, what mattered was Cersei, their children, and their safety. 

Rounding a corner, the knight stopped short as he caught sight of two figures emerging from a hidden doorway set deep in the crevices of the wall surrounding the castle grounds. With his hand already on the pommel of his sword, Jaime crouched low, and would have alerted any guards in the vicinity, had he not caught sight of a flash of brilliant red hair gleaming by the light of the full moon. 

At first, given the way the taller, shadowed figure stood, the Knight of the Kingsguard assumed he was staring at Robb Stark, conspiring with the Maester of Winterfell. A second glance however, dispelled that notion.

Smirking, Jaime observed as Eddard Stark’s eldest daughter crept into the castle like a thief in the night, her clothes stained and ripped in places. 

Could it be that the girl had snuck out of the castle for a secret, final tryst, with some faceless lover before she committed herself to her new place in the world, as wife to the Crown Prince?

Jaime supposed, as a servant to the crown, that his duty was to alert the King and Queen to the fact that their prospective good-daughter was likely not quite as pure as the driven snow as they would have liked. 

But then again, neither was Cersei exactly a blushing, virginal bride, the day she was wedded to Robert. And who had been responsible for that, if not him? 

Observing the manner of her garb however, Jaime wondered that a pretty girl like Sansa would dress herself like a man to meet her lover. He supposed he could see the appeal, he thought as his green eyes drifted appraisingly over her slender hips. Without meaning to, his gaze lingered appreciatively on the girl’s shapely thighs, unconsciously admiring the way her snug leather breeches wrapped themselves around the curves of her body.

“Sansa…” the Maester called after the girl. “For what it's worth - I am truly sorry. This was not what I wanted for you.”

The eldest daughter of Winterfell turned to the old man with fathomless blue eyes. 

Unexpectedly, the empty hopelessness Jaime saw in her steady gaze took his breathe away. For a moment, the man found himself unable to reconcile the young woman before him with the sweet, innocent girl he had been introduced to only recently, in this very same courtyard. 

Both figures, young and old, regarded each other in silence, before Sansa spun on her heel and stalked, not towards the Stark family quarters, but towards the broken tower. The Maester watched her leave, before he himself reluctantly turned his frail body away, ambling back towards whatever refuge he had emerged from.

The knight hesitated. The sensible thing to do, would have been to return to his own quarters. 

On the other hand, a small voice reasoned inside his head, he had wandered these grounds enough, to know that the direction she was headed in, usually stood unguarded at this late hour.

Was it not his sworn duty to ensure the safety and virtue of a young lady such as she? Conveniently, the knight purposely forgot that he had himself, only a minute ago, considered that very same _virtue_ suspect. 

His decision made, Jaime followed the Lady Sansa through the grounds of her home, and watched in consternation as she entered a dilapidated structure without so much as a backwards gaze. There was no trepidation in her steps, no fear or hesitance in her movements. 

Instinct made his every move cautious as he crept forwards. Finally, he stood just off to the side of the open doorway, and peered curiously into ruins of the old barn. 

Green eyes widened in shock. Right before Jaime, the prim and proper Lady Sansa was hacking furiously at a strawman with a greatsword clasped tightly in her hands.

For a moment, he considered calling out a warning, wary that she might hurt herself as she wielded the heavy weapon.

The same instinct that had bred caution in him as he followed her in the dark and the cold however, caused Jaime to hold his peace. As the moments passed, the seasoned warrior began to understand that the little girl he had met recently, was not in fact, as hapless as every other highborn lady he had thus far encountered in his life. Already, his mind returned to the recollection of her younger sister, who constantly insinuated herself into the mock duals her brothers hosted in the yard. 

Likely, he reflected, the Stark girls were all taught how to handle themselves in a fray as a matter of practicality. Jaime did not disapprove of the notion. As far as he was concerned, it was ludicrous that women were forced to wait on menfolk to see to their own protection. 

While he doubted the strength of a woman against say, a group of brigands, being able to fend off further advances until real help arrived, could only increase a female’s chance of survival.

In short order, Sansa had lopped the strawman’s wretched head off. Breathing heavily, she stopped moving for a moment, before discarding the heavy weapon with a careless toss of her hand. 

To his continued surprise, the young woman fell upon the lifeless figure with her bare fists, slamming her bare knuckles against the flimsy thing again and again, until it fell apart under the onslaught.

Staring at the broken pieces of dirty straw all around her, Sansa looked down at her unbroken knuckles in faint disbelief, before she began very slowly, to walk backwards. When her back finally met the mildewy walls of the broken down barn, the woman slid against its filthy surface, until she was resting squarely upon the ground. 

With her legs splayed out before her, and her hands resting lifelessly upon her belly, Sansa resembled nothing so much as a broken doll.

He really ought to have turned away by now, he thought. The girl was safe, and likely, able to guard against what little foes the Starks faced in the North, at least to a point where she could have summoned real warriors to her side. Yet as he gazed upon her small figure sprawled in the dark, as he observed the sorrow in her young eyes, Jaime could not bring himself to leave.

Something inside of him wanted to cast his own weapon aside; he wanted to march over to the crumpled figure and haul her to her feet. Whatever invisible monsters she was fighting inside her mind, someone should tell the girl that it was possible to keep pressing onwards. Sansa was too young to have so little hope. 

But with what proof did he have, to assure her that things would get better? After all, he had not been much older than Joffrey’s intended when he had seen the ugly truths of the world for what they were. The part of him that had once believed in goodness and nobility had been broken into uncountable shards, which not even Cersei could put back together. 

Conflicted, Jaime turned his face away and stared upwards at the bright moon. Not wanting to stay, but finding it impossible to go, he stood guard at the entrance to the ruin. 

When finally the young woman stirred from her seeming stupor, Jaime, likewise, slunk back into the shadows, retreating to his quarters only when he was certain that she was safely on her way back to her own.

***

As the group meandered down the Kingsroad, Jaime found that he could not keep his gaze from the eldest Stark girl, no matter that he did his best to rid himself of his new and strange fixation.

The man understood the incongruity of it. The girl was betrothed to his nephew, or more accurately, his son. They were of an age, Sansa and Joffrey, yet in his eyes, the differences could not have been more obvious.

Cersei had described her as a vapid, vain little girl, who was undoubtedly going to be eaten alive in the court of the Red Keep. In such things, the knight had always deferred to his older sister, and to his little brother. Both his siblings enjoyed the intricacies of the court and the games of the noblemen far more than he ever would. 

As he studied her from his surreptitious angle however, Jaime noticed that the girl was always watching, ceaselessly observing every individual around her. The girl noticed almost everything, and missed practically nothing, judging from her minute reactions to little details as they occurred. By comparison, her travelling companions, including her sister and her father, all seemed practically oblivious to their surroundings.

No, he realized. His sister was wrong. There was nothing vapid about Lady Sansa whatsoever. And Cersei wasn’t going to like it one bit, the day she finally worked that out for herself.

Outside of that, he had overheard on more than one occasion now, the voice of Sansa’s Septa chastising the noblewoman in a manner that spoke of a strangely combative relationship between the two.

“…expect me to do my duty when we’re surrounded as we are?” Sansa had questioned at dusk, two nights into their travels.

“Consider it a test of your skill.” the old woman had said wryly, mercilessly even. “What good are you if mere men could defeat you?”

“Find a time and a place and I’ll show you exactly what I can do.” the girl replied stiffly, to the chagrin of her Septa. 

“That’s enough.” the Holy Woman hissed. 

That night, as the Royal party settled by a roadside inn, Jaime found himself lingering near where they had settled Sansa, waiting almost expectantly. The direwolf that followed her everywhere - she eyed Jaime solemnly from her hallway outside the girl’s quarters, but made not a single sound. 

Fixed as his attention was upon Sansa’s door, he did not hear Cersei’s steps until she had a hand on his elbow, dragging him into a deserted room. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked fiercely once they were safely ensconced away from the rest of the world. Even through the layers of his clothing, the knight could feel his sister’s nails gouging into the flesh of his arm. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself, sniffing after the Stark girl.”

Blinking down at his twin, Jaime considered her words. A lazy smile spread across his features, masking a twinge of panic sparking to life in his chest. 

The man was not afraid exactly, of others noticing his new and recent hobby of trailing after the oldest Stark girl. Most of the royal party tittered about the Kingslayer - that had always been the case, and that would always be the case. Moreover, he was aware that Robert’s subjects were all too afraid of Tywin Lannister’s son to keep too close an eye on his movements. 

No - his fear was borne of his sister’s regard, which for once was unwelcome. Cersei’s jealousy was a tangible thing, and he had no wish for it to be turned against himself, and strangely enough, Sansa Stark. 

“The Stark girl? I was simply waiting for you to come to me sweet sister,” he murmured, running his fingers soothingly against the side of his sister’s face. To his relief, he could see her anger melting away. Turning her cheek into his touch, she practically purred in pleasure. He had to admit, whatever was happening right then with the woman in his arms, was infinitely more interesting than chasing after teenage girls to see what they might or mightn’t do next.

Roughly, he yanked her body against his and covered her mouth with his, even as his right hand fumbled at her heavy skirts. 

“Jaime…” she gasped against him. “We must be quick about this. Robert…”  
Filled now with his own burning jealousy, Jaime slammed his hand against his sister’s mouth as he pulled her clothing away. Pulling out his ready cock, with swift movements borne of practice, he moved the both of them into a familiar position and buried himself quickly within his twin’s body. 

Gasping, the siblings thrust against each other urgently. Somehow, Jaime managed to steer Cersei so that her back was against the wall, where he fucked her mercilessly, laying claim to the body that should have been his. 

Every time he pushed into her, he liked to imagine that he was erasing all traces of the other man whom he was forced to share her with. Every stroke, he thought, was a cleansing act. 

As one, the twins came together, each breathing the other’s name in their moment of ecstasy. 

“I have to go.” Cersei said the moment she was calm enough to speak. Pulling away from Jaime, she straightened her clothes and tidied her hair, while he slowly moved to cover his own nakedness. 

Before she made to leave the room, she cast her brother one last burning glance over her shoulder. “Jaime…whatever it is you’re playing at, stop it. She’s not for you, and you are not for any other.”

The chastisement rather ruined what tenderness he had felt only a second ago for his sister, he thought in irritation as he watched her leave. 

***

By the time they passed Moat Cailin, and as they approached The Neck, Jaime had learned to hide his regard for Sansa with greater care. That is not to say that his interest had abated in the least.

The whole thing was becoming a sort of game for the knight. Travelling long distances was at the end of it, dull as dull could be. Opportunities for trysts with Cersei were necessarily rare, given the proximity of the King. Moreover, riding all day, staring at the same monotonous countryside hour after hour, day after day, was enough to drive any man mad. 

Jaime was beginning to welcome the sight of the setting sun. Night meant he could resume his little routine of trying to figure out the puzzle that was Sansa Stark.

A few times now, he had watched the redhead as she snuck out of her room or her tent in the dead of night. Often, she was accompanied by her direwolf, and the Septa who shadowed her every move, though occasionally, she would depart all on her own. 

Any lingering suspicion Jaime had, that she was going off to carry on some clandestine affair was dispelled. The young woman did not appear to harbour the excitement any other young maiden might have displayed, at the prospect of meeting an ardent young suitor. Given her mannish garb and the fact that she always bound her scarlet hair up in tight coils against her skull, Sansa did not give the appearance of a young girl trying to look her best for her lover. 

Moreover, unless the royal guards and the Northern delegation were all utterly useless, Jaime was quite certain no one had followed them all the way from Winterfell. 

At first, he had thought to trail her steps, particularly when she was alone. The ease in which she melded into the darkness however, stunned him, often leaving him standing like a fool all by himself. 

When eventually she returned hours later, she would look as dishevelled as she did, the first time he had truly noticed her. A few times, he was sure the girl knew she had an observer, judging from the way she would stop, and peruse her surroundings suspiciously. Usually, he pulled away quickly at that point, fast enough that he escaped discovery without further incident.

Nonetheless, there was always something like satisfaction in her features, he thought, watching the manner in which she crept back towards her quarters or her tent on silent feet, with a small blade or a shortsword twirling effortlessly in her hand. 

Everything was fun and games, until the night she came back to the Royal encampment with blood seeping out a wound on her forehead.

Although Sansa appeared unbothered by her injury, and indeed, seemed in higher spirits than usual, watching a woman bleed was never something the knight could bear in silence. The game no longer seemed very much fun, he realized. 

As he debated his next move in the shadows of the trees where he had been prowling, Sansa stilled. Subtly, her stance shifted and Jaime realized that she was readying herself for a fight. Already, she had a wicked looking dagger clutched in her right hand.

“Come and get me. I promise, I won’t hurt you.” She said very softly. “Alright, I won’t hurt you - much.”

A low growl behind Jaime told him that the girl’s direwolf had him trapped. He could not step further back into the shadows without getting mauled to pieces.

_Ah well._

Emerging fully into the moonlit patch of grass, he watched as Sansa’s features morphed from deadly confidence into something that resembled panic.

“Ser Jaime, I was just on my way to bed,” she blurted out, hastily sheathing her dagger away.

“From a skirmish it looks like.” he nodded at her wound, frowning in genuine concern. “Tell me who it is who attacked you, and I will see to it that they are properly dealt with.”

“It’s nothing.” she shook her head. Jaime could hear the sound of her beast padding its way back to the woman’s side. “I…tripped.” 

_Enough was enough._

“Tripped into what, a closed fist? Lady Sansa, I know you’ve been leaving every night.” he stated calmly. “I don’t know where it is you go, I don’t know why you’ve seen the need to dress and arm yourself like a man each time, but I do know that your little jaunts - they’re not safe.” 

Every word he uttered caused her to pale further. Quite a feat, considering how fair her skin already was, he thought. 

“I haven’t told anybody.” he added almost hurriedly, closing the distance between them. “Though perhaps I should have informed your father…”

“No, please don’t.” Sansa wrung her hands. “All this travelling - it makes finding sleep impossible. I walk to calm myself down, and I dress like a man to deter the interest of anyone so inclined to…well. You know…”

 _She was lying,_ he thought wryly. _Either that, or she was horribly naive._

“Lady Sansa, it might shock you to know that there are men about who would not hesitate to hurt a young man all on his own. Perhaps…you would permit me to escort you on these walks in the future, until we arrived in King’s Landing.” Jaime said at last. “After all, you are promised to the King’s son. I myself would sleep easier knowing you were protected. Though it does seem as if you might have some skill defending yourself…”

A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips, though she seemed far calmer now. 

“I suppose that would be wise.” she nodded gratefully. “I’m sure this restlessness will pass, and the need for my nightly wanderings will end.”

Jaime fought to keep his own smile at bay; the girl thought him easily fooled, it seemed. 

“Very well then. I’m glad we have an understanding.” he paused. “At least promise me you’ll see to that cut.”

“I will.” Sansa hesitated before he could turn to leave. “Ser Jaime…thank you. For your silence on the matter, and for your concern.”

Suddenly, Jaime felt as if he were the blushing maid. Gruffly, he replied, “I’d be a poor knight if I didn’t at least try to protect young ladies determined to run around in the dark of night.”

At that, she did laugh. It was a sweet sound, and one he had never actually heard coming from her. Glancing back, as he met her bright blue eyes, the man felt an old and familiar apprehension clutching at his heart with clawed talons.

Someday, when he was his own son’s sworn guard, he would likely be doomed to watch as Joffrey slowly destroyed the girl, until there was nothing left but a broken wreck.

***

The next few nights passed rather uneventfully, as he rather expected. Correspondingly, Sansa’s Septa seemed in a fouler mood, though the young woman seemed utterly unaffected and in fact, looked as if she took sadistic pleasure in the older woman’s ire.

Observing the pair from a safe distance, Jaime could not help but find himself rather amused by the artful way Sansa so very obviously needled the holy woman into open wrath. To think that his sister had called her stupid. There was nothing dim whatsoever about the eldest Stark girl.

It did not escape his notice that the wound he had seen upon her forehead had healed in an extraordinarily short time. Whatever gods had blessed her, he was strangely grateful for it, though a quiet little voice in his head reminded him why being able to heal quickly made Sansa the perfect wife for Joffrey.

For now, Jaime found it easier to ignore the thought. To think further upon it, was only going to invite catastrophe.

On the sixth night, when Sansa emerged from her tent long past the rise of the crescent moon, Jaime was ready, and waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” he asked smoothly, smiling his most charming smile in response to her dark scowl. 

“Ser Jaime.” she said, masking her annoyance quite badly. Her wolf was nowhere in sight. “Well met.”

Taking pity on her, he offered her the crook of his arm. “Point me. And we will walk my lady.”

Reluctantly, the woman took his arm. Feeling a little lost, but sensing that to be seen with her would have been an open invitation for gossipmongers among them, Jaime steered the both of them towards the dark woods, satisfied that he would be able to summon help if anything beset them from the dark depths for the forest.

“Don’t you have to be guarding the King?” Sansa asked curiously, the moment they were out of earshot. She had long since slipped from his grasp.

In the moonlight, with her hair coiled up as it was, Jaime could trace the curve of her pale neck perfectly. It was a test of his will not to look further down, at the way her leather tunic somehow accentuated rather than hid the curves of her bosom.

“The King is under the watchful eye of my best men.” he said lightly. “I on the other hand, recently made a pledge to see to the safety of my nephew’s betrothed. I believe you were there when that happened.”

“It must be so exciting to be a knight in King’s Landing.” Sansa hesitated. “You must have so many stories to tell.”

For a moment, Jaime forgot that he was playing the part of a gallant and chivalrous knight. He considered warning her, advising her even, of the true and ugly face of the Capital. 

As he glimpsed her stoic blue eyes however, he found that he could not deny Sansa the pretty stories she so craved, to distract her from whatever rottenness had already found her despite her youth.

“Stories. Aye, I suppose do indeed.” he cast his mind to another age. “Would that you could have seen the court, when it had been awash in golden splendour…”

***

Night after night, they walked beside each other, her listening in rapt attention, and him fooling himself into believing that he was pulling her away from a ledge he could not truly see. At first, it was enough for her. 

Every night close to dawn, he returned Sansa safe and sound to her bed. Occasionally, he even glimpsed the irate face of her chaperone waiting for her in her quarters, glaring at her ward with thwarted rage. Oddly enough, Eddard Stark had yet to hunt him down, demanding to know what the Kingslayer was doing with his daughter during their late night jaunts to nowhere.

By the time the roar of the Trident could be heard however, the knight was forced to face the fact that Sansa was restless for something else. He could see it plainly in the way she carried herself. Every last crack of a twig, every last whisper of a breeze sent her twitching for a weapon he knew instinctively, she hid somewhere on her person.

Jaime stopped on grassy knoll far from camp, and turned to the young woman who looked questioningly up at him. Close by, the dark forest rustled as the warm summer winds blew through its leaves.

“Is something bothering you?” he asked innocently. 

“Not at all ser,” she said quickly, smiling at him. The two had become quite at ease with each other, spending as much time as they did together.

“Come now. Could you not find it within yourself to be honest with me?” he asked, slyly drawing his dagger and twirling it in his long fingers. 

She eyed his weapon hungrily. At last, she said quite softly, “I do suppose I miss sparring. Father used to let both Arya and myself train in the yard with our brothers. All these days of travelling, I've had barely a chance to lift a sword.”

A part of him misliked how easily the lie came to her lips. It had not escaped his notice that he had been the one who had done almost all the talking in the past days, whereas she had spoken to him almost only in questions.

“Would you like to have a bit of a go?” he asked, tossing the small blade in the air and catching it by its hilt. “With me?”

“You?” she quirked a dainty brow, unconsciously taking a step forwards. 

“Scared?” he asked with a smirk. 

Sansa laughed uncomfortably. “Only that one of us would get hurt.”

“I’m certain of my safety in your hands my lady.” he said without an ounce of modesty. “Though I shudder to think what Lord Stark would do to me, if I were to so much as lay a scratch on you.”

Unexpectedly, her expression shifted to something distinctly wolfish as she considered the challenge in his words. Before he could prepare himself, Sansa drew what was unmistakably, a small wooden stake from an unseen fold in her tunic. Swiftly, she launched herself at him, her body making barely a sound as she flowed through the darkness. Raising his dagger, Jaime hissed in surprise as she easily knocked the weapon out of his hand before catching it with her left.

Now, he was left barehanded, while she faced him with two sharp objects, and a merry laugh on her lips.

“I appear to have underestimated your abilities.” he allowed himself a grin of his own, before he undid the ties of his cloak. “Shall we start again? I’ll even let you keep my dagger if you’ll lend me your own, sorry little weapon.”

“Why, when I can just take your blade from you whenever I please?” she asked, tossing him his own dagger.

The moment his fingers closed around it, Jaime darted to her right and struck, only to have his attack parried with admirable speed. Again and again, he searched for an opening, and after a few minutes, he realized that he was sparring in earnest with the woman. Already, his breathes were coming in short pants. 

Sansa on the other hand, was clearly enjoying herself, circling and dodging his blows with ease.

 _This would not do_. Without warning, he dropped to a crouch and struck his right leg out, kicking at her slim calves. Yelping in surprise, Sansa stumbled and fell towards him, barely giving him time to toss his dagger aside in a bid to not stab the woman in the gut.

Laying in the grass with Sansa sprawled above him, Jaime was suddenly incredibly aware how close their bodies were, and how he could almost feel her heart beating between her ribs. Certainly, he found himself unable to look away from the blue of her eyes. 

“That wasn’t fair,” she said in annoyance, seeming not to notice their rather intimate position. “You caught me by surprise.”

“I tend to fight for the sake of winning.” he informed her, wondering why he had yet to push her away. 

The girl smiled brilliantly as something very sharp poked hard at his ribcage. It would appear Sansa did not particularly enjoy losing either, and had used his momentary distraction to gain the literal upper hand. 

“You little…” he found himself suitably impressed. 

Capturing her offending wrist, he pushed hard and flipped their bodies, so that she lay beneath him as he straddled her hips. Her hair had come loose in the struggle, spreading itself like a wave of dark scarlet upon the grass. The way she giggled in amusement, the flush that spread from her cheeks down her neck…

For all of a second, the rest of the world disappeared entirely; he was not the much derided Kingslayer. Instead, he was simply Jaime, and she was only Sansa, and the two of them were all that mattered as they grinned at each other. 

But Sansa must have heard something he didn’t. Abruptly, her smile disappeared, as a deep frown creased her smooth forehead. 

“What…” he started to say, even as she scrambled away from him. Her fingers were curled tightly around her little wooden stake, as she stared past the treeline into an all consuming darkness. 

Discomfited, Jaime raised himself to his feet, retrieving his dagger as he did so. He was about to repeat his question when shadowed figures stepped into view from the black recesses of the woods. 

“They told me the slayer was a highborn lady, but here she is, rolling in the dirt like a common whore.” the largest of them sneered as they approached. 

Jaime understood the insult in the man’s words, even if not all of it made sense. And his face…all their faces. There was something wrong with the deformed countenance of each and every man who was approaching them.

“Ser Jaime, I think it's time you returned to camp.” Sansa called without looking back at him. There was not a single tremor in her voice, nothing that told him that she was in any way frightened. “Run. Now.”

“No, do stay. We’ve got soldiers in our ranks - adding a knight. Now that would be an achievement, eh lads?” the creature laughed hideously, exposing yellowed fangs. Bestial eyes flashed in the moonlight. “But first, I’m going to kill me a slayer.”

“Promises, promises.” Sansa said in confusingly light tone. “You’re just going to break every one of them.”

“Make your jokes while you can. I’ll be ripping out that tongue soon.” another one of them snarled.

“Are you going to threaten to rip out my eyes as well?” Sansa quipped dryly. “Maybe something about how you’re going to make me eat them before you drain me. I always like a good threat about the eyes.”

“Sansa what are you…” Jaime never got to finish. Those things began to run, unarmed, towards the pair at an inhuman speed. 

The young woman he had only just been sparring with however, was somehow even faster. Like a deadly shadow, she swept towards the monsters and brought her wooden stake down with fatal accuracy, plunging it in quick succession over and over into the chests of each monstrous creature. 

In shock, he watched as they crumbled to dust before his eyes. 

One of then things had gotten past Sansa, making a beeline directly in his direction, leaving him almost no time to draw his sword.

“Swing at their necks!” she yelled as she flung her weapon towards yet another approaching monstrosity. 

Forcing himself to focus, Jaime did as she ordered, but missed his mark, slicing deeply instead into the man-shaped creature’s arm. Roaring in rage and pain, his opponent, dressed in the tattered colours of a Tully soldier barrelled into him with a force such as he had never encountered from any man. 

The deformed creature lunged towards the knight’s throat, and Jaime found himself staring down a mouth full of sharp teeth. In horror, the knight almost choked on the foul smell emanating for the creature’s throat. 

Pulling his senses together, Jaime roared in fury as his own bloodlust overcame what fear he had. Plunging his weapon deep into the creature’s throat, the man sliced hard, feeling his blade cutting through muscle, tendon and bone. Like all the others, the thing crumbled to dust above him.

Someone was running towards him. Leaping to his feet, Jaime lashed out with his sword, only to have his weapon knocked to the side. 

“Jaime it’s over.” Sansa gasped, though she eyed him warily as she stepped backwards carefully, like he was the one who was the wild animal.

“What in the seven hells were those things?” he asked, every instinct ready to strike.

“Jaime, I…” she started helplessly.

“No more lies Sansa Stark. Tell me everything.” he moved swiftly, angling the blade of his sword so it was poised at her exposed neck. Anger took ahold of her, and Jaime instantly understood he had made a mistake in threatening her. 

Clapping her hands on the flat of his sword, she twisted quickly and brutally, forcing him to release his hold on the pommel of his sword, leaving him gaping foolishly at his empty right hand.

“I tried to tell you to leave me alone.” she said in a low, furious voice. The glower on her face made her impossibly - in Jaime's irrevocable perception - older than her actual years. “I told you to run.”

“After what just happened, after all this time spent together, I would be remiss in thinking that perhaps we owed each other some truths.” he forced himself to stay calm. “Is this what you’ve been doing all on your own, those nights you stole away?”

“What do you think?”

“Why didn’t you tell your father? Or anyone else for that matter? Sansa it’s not safe for a young girl such as yourself to…” 

“You speak of things you don’t understand.” she said flatly. 

“So help me understand,” he thundered. 

The dainty and delicate daughter of Eddard Stark barked a very, very unladylike expletive, right before she started to tell him exactly what he had asked to know. 

She told him everything.

***

Every child in Westeros knew the old tales of undead creatures that stalked the land, seeking to fill their unnatural appetites with the blood of the living. They burned by the light of the sun, and they could not enter a living person’s home without an explicit invitation.

But vampires - they were simply tales, told to frighten the young. Everyone knew that. Even the prospect of White Walkers and Wights, of Grumpkins and Snarks, were more believable than vampires. For one thing, wouldn’t Jaime have encountered at least one of them in his life by now, if they existed apparently, everywhere?

Worse than finding out he had almost been bitten by one of those damned creatures however, was finding out Sansa’s part in all this nasty business. 

“You must be mistaken.” he said as he paced to and fro, running a frustrated hand through his golden hair. Sansa had finally stopped speaking. Instead, she kept on pulling up blades of grass that grew around where she was seated.

"I said something very much along those lines to Septa Mordane, the night I was called.” Sansa sighed, looking exhausted in the telling of her tale. She rubbed at her eyes like the child he was coming to understand she was not. “But you saw it for yourself tonight. If you don’t believe my words, believe your eyes.”

Indeed, in the absence of anything else, he had seen how the woman had effortlessly slain the undead bloodsuckers, where even he had trouble defeating one. There was truth in her words, and he liked none of it.

“You are to marry Joffrey.” he said heavily, as if that would change anything. Already, the horrors she would suffer at his son’s hands, paled to the prospect that Sansa was to face those monsters every night.

“I was thusly informed that my troth was not an accident.” she told him, her voice thick with frustration. “King’s Landing is an evil place, I’ve been told. All Slayers born in the seven kingdoms and south of the Wall in the past fifty years have been sent to the Capital. Surely you of all people could see why.”

“All Slayers in the Seven Kingdoms. How many have there been?” he asked with dread in his heart as he paused in his steps. 

Judging from the hopeless answer in her eyes, he was beginning to understand what exactly had broken Sansa so soon.

When one dies, another is called, she had told him. The words had almost sent him spiralling into a strange fury, but for the knowledge that his anger was useless. Whatever powers existed beyond the realms of men, they used up the lives of young women - and it was always women - as if they were each nothing more than objects to be discarded at will.

In the short time he had come to know Sansa, he knew one thing - she was not replaceable.

“Ser Jaime…” she climbed to her feet. “Promise me…swear to me you will not tell anyone of this. Please. It was supposed to have been my burden alone. But after what you saw this night…”

Strange to think that only a mere hour ago, he had forgotten himself utterly, if only from the sheer joy of being close to this young woman. Now, all he wanted was to muster every last option available to him as the eldest son of Tywin Lannister, to shield this innocent from the ugly unfairness of fate.

“Let me tell your father,” he found himself all but begging. “Together we can find a way to break this bond.”

She tilted her head challengingly. “Do you think to break my father’s heart then? Do you not understand what this would do to him, to know that his daughter was sent to die every night?”

And there it was. The heart of why Lord Stark had never once given so much as a hint that he knew what his daughter and her Septa, and apparently, the Maester of Winterfell had been up to.

“No ser, you will do no such thing.” she stated firmly, though he could hear the cracks in her voice.

“What if you just stopped?” he asked. “What if you refused?”

“One dies and another is called. I am a problem easily solved.” Sansa said. “Besides. You assume I want to stop. Ever since I slew my first vampire, the hunger in me to do more violence has only risen. I am a monster in my own right."

“You? A monster?” he barked disbelievingly, suddenly feeling the weight of his own sins. Unbidden, the image of her brother falling away at the push of his hand presented itself in his mind’s eye.

“Come now ser.” she began to walk towards their main camp. “You would not have asked me to spar tonight, if you didn’t see how much I craved the struggle.”

Jaime found himself on strangely familiar ground. The pleasure in the fight - he was not unfamiliar with the rush that accompanied shoving his sword into an enemy’s flesh. The difference between himself and the Slayer however, was that those he killed were living, breathing men. 

“You saved me tonight. You’ve been saving all of us.”

She stilled.

“I will keep your secrets Lady Sansa.” he said as he approached her. “I swear it. On the condition that you understand - I will not let you fight your fight alone. Not insomuch as I can help it.”

In the days since he had come to know her, he saw the first sparks of hope in her blue eyes. The sight heartened him more than she could have known.

“I have come to think of you as a friend. Truly, I have. Tonight…had anything happened to you, I would never have forgiven myself. I put you in harm’s way.”

“As if I could have left you.” Jaime snorted, hiding his pleasure at the thought that they were indeed, friends. When was the last time he had considered someone else a friend? Something occurred to him however, that rather soured the moment.

“My lady, is there a chance you allowed me to win as we fought each other tonight?”

“I would never do such a thing.” she stated, attempting to look offended, before she swept off, back towards the royal encampment. 

“You waste too much time talking when you should be fighting. Baiting those creatures the way you did was unwise to say the least.” he retorted after her, his face burning at the knowledge that the slip of the girl could have knocked him on his rump at any time. It was no use however. 

Sansa grinned back at him over a deceptively delicate shoulder. The darkness that had weighed her down only a moment ago was nowhere in sight; Jaime couldn’t help but find her smile utterly disarming. With a girlish laugh, the Slayer ran, and the knight, he followed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa bucks at the boundaries of her calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grammar issues, sorry, etc. 
> 
> Also ripped some lines from ep e01x01

Stepping through the heavy flaps of her tent, Sansa found herself looking into the furious eyes of Septa Mordane, though the sight hardly surprised her. 

At the beginning of the journey, the woman had been relentless in her insistence that she ought to follow the Slayer out on her patrols of the camp border.

As the days passed however, the Slayer herself found herself sick and tired of listening to the holy woman’s endless lectures criticizing her form and strategy, as she alone waged her battles. Somehow, no matter how many of the dead she slew, and how quickly she dispatched her foes, there was always something lacking in the eyes of Septa Mordane. 

A few times, she had been sorely tempted the shove her stake at the other female and demand that _she_ take over the sacred duty of ridding the world of vampires. While it was true that both her Maester and her Septa had been crucial in teaching her the basics of combat, she had learned quickly that their knowledge was confined only to what they had read in books. Neither of them were strong enough to have actually ever even swung a weapon.

If anything, long afternoons spent spying on her brothers and Theon Greyjoy as they trained in the yard had taught her more than any of the lectures she had been forced to endure. 

Whatever lingering affection she had for her mentors however, stilled her own sharp words of reprimand. 

All of her frustration threatened to spill past her lips as her Septa parted her lips, no doubt with another caustic reprimand. Ever since she had revealed to the older woman that Jaime had caught her returning from her nightly meanderings, her Septa had been nothing but tiresome in her constant scolding of the Slayer’s carelessness.

The speed in which the woman snapped her mouth shut however, told the Slayer that Jaime had chosen to follow her into her quarters for once, rather than lingering outside as was his usual. 

“Ser Jaime, thank you for escorting my charge safely back to me.” Septa Mordane spoke with icy courtesy. “The young lady needs her rest.”

One look at the knight caused the Slayer to sigh in resignation. 

“I happen to agree that the young lady needs her rest, but if I’m not mistaken, it was you and yours who sent her off into the night to begin with.” he said in a tone that was as cold as the snows of the North. 

“Pardon?” the other woman stuttered. 

Jaime shook his head. “That Sansa should take her orders from old and decrepit men and women, all of whom hide in the shadows even as she risks her life to save theirs. Night after night. Unthinkable.”

“What have you told him?” Septa Mordane demanded, turning her attention to the Slayer. “You were supposed to keep your silence Slayer.”

“A group of vampires attacked us. Should I have played the helpless lady while they savaged Ser Jaime?” Sansa asked in what she felt was an utterly reasonable tone. To her satisfaction, the holy woman gaped at her like a fish. 

“It’s your fault, and your carelessness that put him in that position to begin with.” her Septa finally said. “He should never have caught you sneaking about.”

“Be silent crone.” Jaime said contemptuously. 

“Jaime, enough.” Sansa turned to her companion, trying to hide her smile even in the face of his simmering anger. “My thanks again…for everything.”

“I will find you tomorrow. Do not even _think_ of wandering off without me.” he stated firmly, though his tone had softened as he gazed down upon her.

When he was finally gone, Sansa turned to face the proverbial music.

“You’re going to get him killed.” the woman said, finally turning to leave. “Or worse. How do you fancy the day you have to face the demon wearing his skin?”

Without waiting for an answer, the holy woman turned away, leaving Sansa staring after her in dislike and dread.

 

*** 

What Sansa possessed in strength, Jaime more than made up for in passion and skill. When he wasn’t busy dodging her blows, he was seeking openings in her stance, weaknesses in her defence. 

That she had considered herself near invincible was proving to be a dangerous illusion, she found to her discomfiture as they tested their mettle against each other, night after night. 

The foes she had faced thus far were strong, but not clever in the arts of combat. This she came to understand when Jaime had her laid flat on her back, with her wrists pinned helplessly above her, her legs immobilized under his strong thighs. 

“I told you, you spend too much time talking and not enough time listening.” he murmured by her ear. Hot breath scraped against her heated skin as he lingered by her neck, emphasizing a dangerous point. Looking into his green eyes, the fear she saw within - fear for her, in fact - forced her consider the gravity of his counsel. 

Close by, Lady yawned in boredom, laying her massive head on her paws. The direwolf peacefully observed the humans roughhousing against each other, though occasionally she offered a bark of encouragement here and there. 

“You’re just jealous.” she squirmed under him. “I can wield a blade and my wit all at once.”

“Again.” he ordered, ignoring her attempt to dismiss him as he stood up. 

This time, it was she who surprised him. Running directly at him, she jumped at the very last and landed directly behind the larger man, surprising him as she wrapped an arm around his neck. Flipping their positions, it was now he who was thrown backwards against the cold earth. Kneeling above him, she held a stake poised inches above his heart. 

“Very good.” he said appreciatively, breath coming in shallow pants. 

“Yes, but how many stupid vampires are as well practiced as you are in fight?” she complained, climbing to her feet. “Most think with their teeth.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” he said bluntly, absently stroking the ears of her wolf. Lady growled appreciatively as she nuzzled at his hand. “All you need is a single vampire who can get past your defences, and you’re finished Slayer. I wish you’d take me serious…stop making faces, I can see you.”

***

The vampires circled them menacingly in the broken down home they had found themselves in. 

“Aim for the heart and slice for the neck you said?” he whispered. Lady bared her teeth, standing guard before the two warriors behind her.

Sansa nodded. There was an excitement in his emerald eyes that should have worried her, but for the fact that she knew she wore the same thrilled expression. 

Before she could think to hold him back, Jaime had sprung forwards. Sword flashing in the darkness, he hacked and slashed mercilessly against his foes. 

The first two vampires fell quickly under his perfect strokes, the Slayer noticed with deep admiration even as she bounded towards her own quarry.

“What are you?” one of the vampires shrieked as she effortlessly broke its legs with a vicious kick. Close by, Lady was busy ripping apart a screaming demon in her bloody jaws. 

“Don’t you know?” she asked in savage glee, advancing upon the terrified vampire. “I am your doom. I am your end and your…”

“Gods Slayer, do you ever shut up?” Jaime called. His voice was taut with exertion and annoyance.

“You’re ruining everything.” she replied petulantly.

“Slayer? I thought you were naught but a story.” the vampire wailed, but it was too late. Her stake had found its heart and Sansa was already turning to the next challenge.

This one was a female, and from the looks of her soiled veil, she had once been a Septa. The fallen holy woman had thought to attack the Slayer’s companion, launching herself so that she snapped like a rabid animal against the man’s neck. Pressed against the crumbling walls of the shack, Jaime grunted, shoving hard at the fiend to no avail. 

With unerring aim, Sansa swept forwards with her splintering stake and smashed it against the back of the vampire. As her weapon disintegrated in her hands, the dead thing exploded in a cloud of dust, causing her to fall forwards in her momentum. Luckily, Jaime reacted quickly, placing his hands on her hips to steady her as she grabbed at his forearms. 

Under a broken roof that exposed the starry night sky, the two of them stood holding tightly onto each other, grinning foolishly as they revelled in the heat of the kill.

***

There was one other thing she never spoke of. A trait which, she doubted, even Septa Mordane or Maester Luwin in all their knowledge were aware of. It was something she was hard-pressed to admit even to herself, for fear of what it meant for her humanity.

Sansa could hear the faint heartbeats of everyone around her. Not only that, but she could smell the faint changes in their scents. 

For instance, she always knew when her father had been scraped during one of his hunts with the king, simply by the iron tang in the air that surrounded his person. 

Or. 

When one of their guards had visited with brothel, the smell of sex that surrounded him was un-mistakable. The fact that she could pick out exactly which whore had serviced her father’s man, always left her feeling a little sick.

What would Jaime would think, she wondered, if he was aware that she could always tell when he had been with his sister the Queen, or that she could pick out the exact moment his heart began to flutter in his chest every time Cersei so much as twitched her head. 

The knowledge that the knight and his sister were engaged in something so intimate should have given the Slayer pause; it should have made her re-think the wisdom of trusting a man who could commit such an amoral deed as incest. The treasonous implications by itself should have made her head spin.

Yet when she saw the way his face lit up when Cersei was close by, or the way Cersei herself brightened in the presence of Jaime…

The King inflicted violence upon his wife with a casual sort of cruelty that disgusted her. Her Lord Father would never have spoken to her mother, the way Robert spoke to Cersei in the presence of others. Worse than that, she could smell the slight and shallow wounds the man left on the Queen’s slender frame. There was no need for her to peek under the older woman’s clothing, for her to know that she would find bruises and cuts upon her fair skin.

No. It was hard to grudge the twins whatever illicit affair they shared, knowing what she did…indeed, it made her wistful in a strange way. No man, not even sweet Joffrey, had ever looked at her as if she were the only thing that mattered. 

Besides, who was she to judge others, when she had become as fell as the creatures she hunted? When she had become just about as bestial as her beloved Lady?

Ruefully, she thought to herself that if Jaime knew how she moved through the world…he might not be so forgiving of her true nature then. Indeed, she might find herself at the wrong end of his sword one day, once he understood the monster that lived under her skin.

***

Her walk with the Prince started out innocently enough. Actually, it might not have started at all, had Joffrey’s personal guard Sandor Clegane, the one they called the Hound, not cornered her as she strolled the grounds of the inn they were settled at for the afternoon. Idly, the Slayer walked with Lady, studying with some interest, the members of the Royal entourage as they bustled about her.

It had been her perusal of Ilyn Payne that seemed to draw the Hound’s attention. For whatever reason, he seemed intent on intimidating her, and took her slightly quaking shoulders and pursed lips as a sign of abject fear. Settling at her feet, Lady lay down on her side and fell asleep.

“Do I frighten you so much, girl?” he asked as he loomed over her menacingly. It was clear that the larger man was trying his best to frighten her with his hoarse voice, his hideous scars, and his cruel manner. For a brief moment, the Slayer considered cracking the man’s shin apart, if only to see the shock in his eyes. Then, stunned by her sudden and brutal fantasy, Sansa lost all hints of mirth.

“What is it, sweet lady?” Joffrey asked, ambling towards them. “Does the Hound frighten you? Away with you, Dog. You're scaring my lady.”

Later, she would think back to that moment and wonder if the entire encounter had been planned, for the sake of allowing the Crown Prince to play the part of her chivalrous hero. 

Just then however, the Prince smiled brightly at her, saying, “I don't like to see you upset. The sun is finally shining. Come walk with me.”

Unsure if she really had a choice in the matter, Sansa dipped her head and offered the Prince a forced smile, before taking his arm, leaving her wolf to slumber peacefully in the afternoon sun.

Strolling with the Prince towards the river, listening to his endless platitudes, praising her beauty and her virtue, the young woman allowed herself to forget the troubles of her mind. Indeed, with some effort, she found that she was able to forget for a moment the creature she was under the moonlight.

Instead, she was just Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, who did not wonder in secret what Joffrey had done to deserve a bride as tainted as she. Her sweet prince was nothing like his boorish father.

It was the moment they stumbled on Arya and the butcher’s boy that changed everything. That Sansa was rudely reminded of the fact that she did not in the end, live in a song, or a fairy tale with valiant heroes and noble princes. 

“That’s your sister Arya is it not? Who is the lad she’s with?” Joffrey asked as the couple stared at the tableau before them. Her little sister was too busy exchanging blows with Mycah to notice that they were being watched. The children were armed with tree branches, no doubt ripped from the woods they were currently surrounded by. 

“What’s she doing?”

“That’s Mycah. He’s the butcher's boy. I see Arya has found herself a sparring partner…” Sansa grinned at the sight of her sister handling herself with some skill. A part of her was proud at the younger girl’s obvious potential with a blade. “She’s always preferred playing with swords over dolls.”

“And your father lets her?” the Prince asked in a tone she had never heard before. Narrowing her eyes, Sansa turned to look at Joffrey. For the rest of her life, Sansa would never forget the moment the Prince’s handsome face twisted itself into a sneer, one ugly enough to rival the demonic countenance of any vampire.

“Hoy there. You. What do you think you’re doing?” Joffrey called out before she could lead him away. Suddenly, Sansa was not so sure she wanted the Prince anywhere close to Arya, or for that matter, poor, stuttering Mycah.

“I’m sorry my Lord…” 

“I am not your _Lord_ ,” Joffrey said sharply, gleefully. “I am your _Prince_. A butcher's boy who wants to be a Knight, eh? Pick up your sword, butcher's boy. Let's see how good you are.”

Looking as if he were going to be visibly ill, Mycah stuttered, “It's not a sword, my prince. It's only a stick.”

“And you're not a Knight. Only a butcher's boy. That was my lady's sister you were hitting, do you know that?” Joffrey’s ugly sneer only grew with every word. 

“Your Grace, let’s leave them be. Perhaps we could find somewhere a little more…” Sansa started soothingly, reaching out to touch his arm. If she could just lure him away…

Roughly, the boy shook her off. Tamping down her sudden inclination to yank him back and show the Prince exactly what she was capable of, the Slayer turned instead to her sister with every intention of stopping a disaster before it could occur.

“Stop it.” the younger girl said loudly, waving her branch. threateningly. 

“Arya, don’t.” Sansa’s voice was filled with caution. 

_What did the fool think her little stick was going to do?_

“I’ll teach you manners yet you little cunt!” Joffrey stepped forwards, drawing his own, very real sword.

“Joffrey,” Sansa’s voice turned low and deadly. All pretence of playing at being a Lady was forgotten now. Out the corner of her eye, she watched as Arya started in surprise at the sight of her sister coming to her defence, but she could not address her just then. Not when the Prince was blatantly threatening her sister with his blade. “I believe it’s time we returned to the inn. Put your weapon away.”

She was not going to ask twice. 

The Prince did pay any mind to her words or the warning in her voice, focusing his sadism on the children in front of him. As Sansa stepped forwards with ever intention of dragging the Prince back by the scruff of his neck, consequences be damned, a streak of grey shot past her.

Before she could stop Nymeria, Arya’s direwolf launched itself upon the Crown Prince. Knocked over on impact, Joffrey lost his hold on his weapon immediately, which fell heavily to the ground. There was a loud snap of lupine jaws. 

Arya’s scream mingled with Joffrey’s loud shriek of distress, both of which rented the warm summer air. Sweeping forwards, Sansa wrestled the wolf, literally throwing the animal so it landed a few feet away. The beast fell hard enough that the creature whimpered in pain, before turning to face her with a loud growl. Whatever it was the wolf saw as she gazed upon the Slayer, it caused the massive animal to back away slowly, before turning tail and disappearing into the forest, whining as it fled. 

“No, please…” she could hear the Prince begging behind her. Sighing, the eldest Stark daughter turned to see Arya threatening Joffrey with his own sword. 

“Arya stop it now.” she balled her hands into fists. “He’s hurt. _His Grace_ is hurt.”

“It’s his own fault.” Arya retorted, looking up at her with hurt, dark eyes. “I told him to leave us alone.”

On the ground between them, the boy was blubbering. Mycah was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re being such a child.” Sansa’s tone was sharp. With some alarm, the Slayer watched her little sister’s jaw tightening in such a way, as to let her know the child was going to do something quite rash. 

Without warning, Arya ran towards the rushing Trident and launched Joffrey’s sword into the water, before she turned and plunged headlong into the woods.

“Arya!” Sansa shrieked. In that moment, she was not the Slayer, nor was she the Lady Sansa. At that moment, she was just an exasperated big sister. 

When no answer was forthcoming, she sighed and turned to her betrothed, before crouching down to attend to the weeping boy. Masking her true disgust, she wore a small, apologetic smile. “Your Grace, are you well? I will go seek help…I’m so sorry my sweet Prince…”

“Then go! Don’t touch me!” Joffrey looked up at her with blazing eyes; the vitriol in his voice would have stunned her, if she hadn’t seen the way he had behaved only minutes ago. 

Breathing deeply, Sansa forced herself to look contrite as she picked up her skirts and ran towards the camp. Annoying little shit though he was, he was bleeding, and it was unfortunately, her sacred duty to see to the wellbeing of the living. 

***

Sundown had come and gone, and what news she was kept informed of, told her that her sister had yet to be found. Pacing back and forth in her chamber as she wrung ceaselessly at her hands, Sansa could feel her senses sharpening with every minute that passed, with every ray of sunlight that disappeared under the horizon.

Never had she felt so helpless. Not since the night she had been called.

“You must not interfere,” Septa Mordane said without much conviction. Her own face was pale as she peeked out the door of Sansa’s room. “You cannot do anything. There are too many men out searching for her, it wouldn’t do for you to get caught.”

“I cannot sit and do nothing.” Sansa bit out as twilight gave way to dark night. “She is my sister. She is _Arya_ who you saw grow from a babe to the girl she is today. You may see _me_ as no more than _chattel_ to the _slaughter_ but surely you must harbour some affection for her.”

The Septa whirled around, her face reddened with hurt and anger. “My lady, I have told you time and again…”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to find her before the King’s men do. For what my sister did, surely Joffrey would seek revenge.” Sansa said determinedly, already stripping her dress off and stepping into something more suited to hunting through the woods for an errant child - or a blood-starved horror.

“Even if she has been found, you know you cannot use your strength against the living,” Septa Mordane said in obvious distress. “How could you hope to save her?”

There was no answer she could give, which would have allayed her Septa’s fears or her own trepidation. Instead, Sansa finished binding her hair into a tight coil, before fastening a dark cloak over her shoulders, and pulling a hood over her scarlet locks. Instead of the front door, Sansa swung out the open window and dropped noiselessly onto the ground below. She would have started for the forest had a strong hand not yanked her backwards, out of sight of a camp in upheaval.

Before she could lash out in defence, Sansa recognized Jaime’s bright green eyes. 

“They have found Arya” he whispered urgently. “Already, they have brought her before the king, arguing over trifles of what transpired this day between Joffrey and your sister.”

“Is she…” Sansa looked searchingly at him, studying his grim expression.

“She is well. For now.” Jaime assured, brushing an errand curl from her face and tucking it into the shadows of her hood. “I have to attend to Robert. I swear, I will do what I can to protect her. As for you…”  
“I will remain here.” she said reluctantly. Looking relieved, Jaime turned and strode back towards the camp.

“With me. The King has called for an assembly,” he commanded to a number of passing men. Without casting a backwards look, he led the men away, leaving Sansa to hurry back safely towards her own quarters in peace, where a quizzical Septa cast her a puzzled look. 

Before she could remove her cloak, there was a knock on the door. “Lady Sansa, the Queen has requested your presence.”

Frowning, Sansa hesitated and looked to Septa Mordane for guidance. The Holy Woman looked at her in apprehension, not offering any indication as to what her charge should do. Pursing her lips in frustration, the Slayer tightened her cloak around herself and opened the door. Lifting her chin, she followed the two guards without protest, though her heart was hammering within her chest.

The scene the greeted her was heartstoppingly tense. In her whole life, she had never seen her Lord Father so furious as he glared at Cersei Lannister, who faced him in similar, bitter rage. Between them, King Robert seemed on the verge of losing what patience he had left. Meanwhile, Arya stood in the middle of the hall, her small face filled with defiance.

“Enough! He tells me one thing, she tells me another. Seven hells ! What am I to make of this? Where's your other daughter, Ned?” Robert thundered. Even Joffrey, the little worm, flinched at his father’s temper.

Ned ground out, “In bed, asleep.”

A malicious expression stole upon the Queen’s beautiful visage, one that revealed to the Slayer exactly where Joffrey learned his own, cruel streak from. The speed in which all her illusions were being brought to nothing was breathtaking.

“She's not. Sansa, come here, darling.” the woman said silkily.

Behind Robert, Jaime cast his twin a look of utter distaste and shock; he looked ready to protest on Sansa’s behalf, even as her own father gaped at the royal couple in dumbfounded outrage. Catching the knight’s eye, the young woman shook her head ever so slightly, clutching her cloak tightly around her throat. It wouldn’t do for all present to see that she was still garbed for a hunt. 

The King missed the silent conversation between his guard and the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark. Cersei on the other hand, flitted her gaze between her brother and Sansa with a deepening and ugly scowl.

 _Catastrophe_ , a small voice whispered in Sansa’s head.

Taking a deep breath, Robert said in what he obviously imagined was a gentle voice, “Now, child...tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It's a great crime to lie to a King.” 

_Your son is a weak, cruel brute who threatened my baby sister with his sword, and challenged an unarmed young boy to a duel_ , Sansa thought with vehemence. 

The Slayer did not, however, fail to notice the way the Westerman present all had their hands poised over the pommels of their swords, or the way they looked to the Queen for their orders. 

“I don't know. I don't remember. Everything happened so fast. I didn't see.” Sansa spoke quietly, wondering how quickly she could move to Arya’s side, while ensuring her father remained shielded from any blows. The Northmen they had brought with them had gathered behind Ned Stark, similarly readying themselves for a brawl.

“Liar! Liar! Liar!” Arya screamed, but the Slayer forced herself to ignore her sister. The girl did not seem to understand the danger they were in. Sneaking one hand under her cloak, Sansa grasped at the hilt of the long handled dagger she kept sheathed in her belt. 

Jaime cast her a look of intense panic, knowing exactly what she was reaching for. For all of a second, the Slayer felt guilty, knowing she had just placed him in a truly difficult position.

“She's as wild as that animal of hers. I want her punished.” Cersei spat over Arya’s continued yelling. 

“No,” Sansa stepped forwards. “Arya didn’t do anything. Nymeria acted according to her nature when she thought my sister was in danger.”

“The wolf. I forgot about the damned wolf.” Robert paused, weighing Sansa’s words. Close by, Arya had quieted her hollering, though their father retained his tight grip on the child. 

Holding her breath, Sansa waited, her hand poised to strike. Across from her, she could see that Jaime was readying himself to defend his liege against the Slayer. Without meaning to, she suddenly envisioned burying her weapon into his belly; the thought caused her to falter, making her take a shaky step backwards. 

“We found no trace of the direwolf, your Grace.” someone said. 

King Robert looked relieved. “So be it.”

Sansa found herself exhaling as her heart resumed its rhythm. Carefully, she re-sheathed her dagger and moved to stand beside her family. Just as she was about to wrap her arms around Arya, the Queen spoke, every word coated in spite.

“We have another wolf.”

Whipping around, Sansa waited on the King’s response. Closing his eyes, Robert clenched his fists. 

“As you will.” he said at last, as if the words physically wounded him.

“No no, not Lady! Lady didn't bite anyone!” she found herself croaking in disbelief. Turning to her father, she implored. “Stop them. Don't let them do it. Please! It wasn't Lady!

“Lady wasn't there! You leave her alone!” Arya cried out beside her. 

_This was a nightmare. It had to be_ , Sansa thought.

“Is this your command... your Grace?” her father asked the King, who strode away without another word. 

Once again, the world was conspiring to rip what little she treasured out of her hands. Everything faded to a dull roar around the Slayer. Turning, she evaded the grasping hands of the men who surrounded her and raced towards where she knew they had Lady secured. 

The direwolf looked up at her trustingly as she approached, her tail wagging furiously. Kneeling beside her, Sansa picked up the iron links that tethered the wolf, and started to pull at the chain with every last ounce of her Slayer strength. Silently, she prayed to whatever Gods would listen that they would give her this much.

The solid iron bonds began to crumble every so slightly under her hands.

 _Only a little more,_ she thought desperately as the wolf whimpered in consternation.

“Sansa,” her father called behind her, his voice filled with sorrow. 

Choosing to ignore him, she kept at her efforts, and would have continued if Ned did not scoop an arm around her waist and lift her bodily away from a confused and anxious Lady, who strained towards the Slayer with a whimper.

“Daughter, you cannot hope to release her.” he said tiredly. “We must do as the Queen…as the _King_ and Queen have commanded.” 

“The sentence isn’t just, nor is it fair.” Sansa pulled away from her Father. “How could you let them do this?”

“I cannot disobey a direct order from my King!” Ned said sharply, as anger suffused his features. Immediately, he looked as if he regretted both his temper and his tone.

“ _You are Lord Stark of Winterfell_. Our very sigil is the direwolf - that you should allow Lady to be executed without even a fight, when she has done nothing wrong is beyond reckoning.” Sansa shook her head as she backed away from Ned. Her father gave her a stricken look. 

“Sansa…” he reached for her. When she flinched away from his grasp, Ned looked as if she had struck him.

“Do as you will.” Sansa hid her tears as she turned away. “I can see that I cannot move you.”  
With that, she strode into the darkness, leaving her father calling helplessly after her. Crossing the yard, she stared as Sandor Clegane transported a heavy burden upon the back of his horse - it was Mycah, bloodied and dead.

How was it that the Citadel and Sept expected her to protect the weak and help the helpless, when she wasn’t allowed to raise a hand against monsters who lived and breathed?. Where was the sense in that?

Shaking her head in despair, the Slayer began moving once again, with every intention of removing herself from this nightmare.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Sansa get closer, even as Sansa tries to assert dominance over her own body. 
> 
> Fate has other, crueller ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: OMC/Sansa ahead
> 
> Anyone still reading, please let me know if I should stop posting. This pet project is getting into "Dustin raises a demigorgon" pet project territory (Stranger Things S2 was so awesome). I.E. a bit monstrous, and not pretty in places

“Why would you have ordered such a thing?” Jaime demanded the moment the door was shut behind Cersei, leaving her alone with him. The bitterness in his voice surprised him.

The knight had waited for his sister in her shadowed rooms, knowing that her husband had already chosen to spend the rest of the evening drowning his troubles in an endless stream of wine and whores.

“The wolf savaged your son.” Cersei said fiercely. “He will bear those scars for the rest of his life, or do you not care?”

“The wolf you ordered to be killed had nothing to do with what happened to Joffrey. You _know_ this.” Jaime ran a frustrated hand through his golden locks as he recalled the look of pure horror on Sansa’s face right before she had sprinted from the hall. “Besides, you and I know he probably deserved it.”

“That you could say that of your own flesh and blood...” Cersei strode up to him, her green eyes narrowing. “Are you so smitten by the Stark girl, you would side with that little bitch over your own child?”

“Sweet sister, you are muddying the waters.” Jaime said in irritation. It was just like Cersei to confuse the issue with her own petty jealousies that had no basis in reality. “This has nothing to do with whichever Stark girl you’re referring to - one of whom, might I say, is a bit young even for my _partial_ tastes.”

“Stop pretending. I saw how you both looked at each other.” his twin growled. “Have you no shame? She is promised to your _son_.”

“Cersei, I beg you to consider that I have committed treasons numerous times for you and _with_ you.” he said in a furious whisper. “You know I’m yours, heart, body and soul. Regardless…I see there is no talking to you just now.”

As he turned to leave, Cersei laid a hand on his forearm, pressing just hard enough to give him pause.

“Jaime…” her tone had softened. “All I sought to do was to protect Joffrey. Perhaps it wasn’t just, what I commanded, but if Joff is to marry Sansa, I’d rest easier at night, knowing there wasn’t a wolf sniffing at her feet, ready to tear his throat out at the merest hint of an excuse.”

Looking over his shoulder, he felt his anger melting away. Still, he found himself speaking a truth the both of them avoided ever truly discussing. “Yes. _He_ will be protected…but who will protect her from him? You know as well as I, what Joffrey truly is. He would have given the wolf plenty of excuses to rip him apart.”

Pulling gently away from his twin, he watched as she brushed something off her cheek that might have been tears.

“Sister, let us stop lying to ourselves. The boy may be of my seed, but truly, he is Robert’s son,” Jaime said at last, observing as her face crumpled into a sob. He was utterly incapable of ignoring the satisfaction he felt at the sight of her pain.

***

Perhaps it was simply fear that led Jaime towards the stables; as he hurried across the courtyard, the man hoped that his instincts were wrong, and that the Slayer would not be so foolish as to flee. If his inclinations were right however, he fervently prayed to whichever God answered such things that he was not too late.

The sight of the Hound unloading his gruesome burden - the corpse of a dead child - did not ease his fears in any way. Briefly, he thought to demand from the man why there was ever a need to murder a helpless boy, but realized grimly there was no use in it. The Cleganes, like their masters, were cruel beasts.

Stepping through the flimsy wooden doors, the man forced himself to tamp down his alarm as he took in the sight before him.

Sansa had armed herself with three blades - two daggers on her left and a great sword on her right. Across her back, she had slung a small travelling pack.

“Don’t,” he called after her, treading softly as if she were a deer that would startle and bolt if he wasn’t careful enough. “Sansa, think about this…”

“What’s there to think about?” she asked, fastening a bridle on the sleek mare she had chosen. His hands ached to reach out and turn her around, to force her to look him in the eye. “I could stay and marry the Prince, and let some fell vampire savage me in a year, or I could ride out now, and choose a fate for myself. I am tired of having others pick my paths Jaime. It has done me no favours.”

“How do you envision, exactly, surviving on your own?” Jaime asked.

“I am the Slayer. I am sure I can make my own way.” she turned at last. Her eyes were red with unshed tears, and her skin was even paler than usual. Jaime couldn’t help himself - he reached out and cupped her wan cheek, brushing his thumb over the sharp angle of her cheekbone.

“Do you have gold? Did you think to take any of that with you?” he asked gently, knowing the answer. “Or - do you know how to start a fire, or prepare for yourself, a meal that won’t kill you? You’re the Slayer, and you are undoubtedly strong. That is all true. But you have told me that you cannot kill one whose heart still beats. What will you do when you meet brigands and rapers on the road? I assure you, both are out there, waiting for one such as you.”

“What will you have me do Ser Jaime?” she snarled as she backed away from his touch. “Do you think Lady was deserving of what had been inflicted upon her? Did you see what your man Sandor did to that poor innocent boy?”

In the past weeks, the knight had become accustomed to the presence of the direwolf as he and the Slayer both hunted the bloodsucking fiends that plagued the night. If anything, he had himself become quite attached of the great beast.

In turn, Lady often nuzzled up affectionately against him, and lent him her considerable protection in the face of danger.

“I wish I could have stopped either injustices from occurring.” he said truthfully. “But I would rather see you safe.”

“Do you think in marrying Joffrey - that would keep me safe?” she snorted. “I have seen his true face today ser, one I do believe _you_ knew of, and hid from me like everyone else. If I do not die in the jaws of a vampire, surely, I will live to suffer at your nephew’s hands.”

There were many things everyone in his life could not say aloud - not without destroying the illusion of the world as they knew it.

Yet twice in the same night, the ugliness of what Joffrey truly was had been stated in plain words. Once by him, and once by Sansa.

Looking down in shame, the sworn knight found himself unable to meet the lady’s eyes.

“He is my Prince. I cannot betray him,” he said without an ounce of conviction.

“Gods Jaime…” Sansa curled her arms around herself as her voice became thick with emotion. “What am I to do?”

Jaime moved forwards, finally doing what he had meant to do since the night he first found her, so lost and so abandoned. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Instead of comforting her however, his words only caused her to sob harder. Slowly, her arms crept up and clasped his unresisting body against hers. Entwined they remained, until he was forced, reluctantly, to release his hold on her when she pulled herself away.

To his guilty relief, he watched as she ran towards her rooms in the inn, leaving the saddled horse behind.

***

The days that followed were filled with stilted silences. While the royal van attempted to fill the strange and awkward atmosphere with gaiety and cheer, there was not one in the party that was unaware of the tension between the Northern Host, and their Southron countrymen.

Furthermore, it had not escaped the gossipmonger’s notice that the Lady Sansa had started to ride far back in the van, far away from the Prince and his retinue. While at first, Lord Stark had hung back with his daughter, the women whispered, her sullen silences had worn on the man, prompting him to pull ahead once again. Even her own sister, they said, preferred the rough company of the Stark bannermen over the frosty affections of the eldest Stark girl.

As for Jaime, as a Knight of the Kingsguard, he had every reason to ride behind the rest of the van. After all, who knew what transpired at the tail, which was always vulnerable to bandits seeking an easy target?

It did not therefore, escape the knight’s notice when a squire named Harlon began to spend more time than was warranted riding alongside Lady Sansa as they slowly but surely plodded their way towards King’s Landing. The two were of an age, so perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised the man that they were inclined towards each others company.

Yet Jaime could not help but frown in annoyance each time the boy reached over to brush Sansa’s hands as she rode, as though instructing her on how better to steer her mount.

Every time the squire thought to casually hand her a wildflower that so happened to ‘match the blue of her eyes’, the knight found himself suppressing the urge to grab the boy by the scruff of his neck.

“Harlon seems quite taken with you,” he mentioned one night as they stalked a trail only she could see in the dark. “He seems unable to leave you alone.”

“Does he?” Sansa replied, betraying nothing in her tone. “Ser, it is better for us to be silent. We are not far from a nest, I do believe.”

Worse than watching the squire paw at Sansa, Jaime hated that he only heard her voice now, when it was necessary for them to converse. He found himself missing her laughter and the barbs she threw his way as they hunted. He longed to hear her witticisms, longed to see the way she came alive during the hunt.

The death of her wolf had left her unmoored and on the surface, unfeeling. Jaime was not fool enough to think however, that the Slayer wasn’t struggling against unseen phantoms beneath her icy demeanour.

The morning after the both of them had destroyed together, a cluster of vampires that had been living off the blood of travellers, Jaime watched in distaste as Harlon whispered some sweet verse in Sansa’s right ear.

“Do you not have other duties to attend to?” he found himself demanding when at last, he could no longer stomach the sight of Harlon’s lips brushing too close, much too close to the lady’s cheek.

“I’ve seen to my duties ser. I have not been called upon just yet. Do you require anything of me?” the younger man snapped to attention immediately, his response nothing short of respectful.

It did not take an idiot to know that the squire was in love with the lady, and that the boy had no true lascivious intent in him whatsover. Nothing more than was normal for a male his age, anyhow.

Sighing, Jaime shook his head, realizing he could find no true fault with Harlon.

When Sansa began to respond in kind, to cast the boy small, shy smiles, and when she began to return his tentative touches with innocent grazes of her own, Jaime found himself once again, unable to keep his silence.

“Giving someone hope when there is none is cruel, don’t you think?” he asked casually, as he parried her attack. In an unexpected move, Jaime brought his left hand against her right forearm, drawing her close to him with his sword poised against the ivory column of her throat.

“Pardon?” she asked in genuine confusion, ducking away and sweeping his legs out from under him.

“I…” Jaime had quite forgotten what he meant to say, as he gazed upwards into her blue, blue eyes.

“Come on. Let’s go again,” she interrupted his thoughts as she leapt to her feet.

“Sansa, be careful.” he found himself admonishing, unable to think of a way to express his actual sentiments: that he would prefer if Sansa told the boy to fuck off.

“You know what I am because I let you know.” she reminded him as they exchanged blows.

“That’s not really what I meant.” he said, pinning her against a tree with his forearm. “I mean that you are still Joffrey’s betrothed, even if the bratling is off sulking at the head of the van. Harlon’s advances will not end well for either of you.”

 _All he was saying was for her own good,_ Jaime told himself.

Still, the blush that rose in her cheeks made the man irrationally peeved; it was clear that Sansa was not in fact, unaffected by the advances of the witless squire.

“Jaime…” she whispered.

The thought of her in the younger man’s embrace, sighing and speaking someone else’s name was almost too much to bear. The knight became acutely aware of how the Slayer’s body felt, pressed up against his own as the seconds marched onwards. Through the layers of their clothing, he could feel every curve, ever tremor and every hitched breath emerging from her lungs.

The Knight of the Kingsguard forced himself to release his hold on her, and to step away, before he did something they would both regret.

Still, as they stared at each other across the empty vacuum between their bodies, Jaime could not help but acknowledge with a surge of triumph that the Slayer was looking at him in strange hunger and longing.

“Those vampires aren’t going to fall onto my stake all on their own,” she said at last, offering him a small grin.

Heartened that he had finally elicited a true smile from the Slayer, Jaime gladly followed the woman where she led.

***

The old woman rode slowly, falling back until she was immediately beside him. At first, he had supposed that the Septa thought once again, to admonish his presence in Sansa’s nightly patrols, and readied himself to ignore the onslaught.

“You have to do something about that Harlon boy,” she spoke in a low voice, catching him off guard. “It will not do for Sansa to fall to the boy’s charms.”

“Why me?” he questioned, lifting a brow. “ _You_ are her chaperone. It is your duty, not mine to guard her honour.”

“You know as well as I that she won’t listen to me.” Septa Mordane turned red with frustration. “If she heeded my words, you would not be by her side as you are, night after night. Not only is it unseemly, but she puts _your_ life in danger.”

“Ah, so sending her alone into the dark - that’s for my benefit is it? Your concern touches me.” he spoke mildly, though his look of utter condescension betrayed his sentiments on the matter of Sansa’s calling.

The holy woman said nothing for a moment.

“Ser Jaime, I am not a heartless woman. I have loved the girl long before you even met her. Do not think me ungrateful for the skills I know you have imparted to her. Perhaps you have even given her a few more years to live…while the Citadel and the Sept can grant the Slayer knowledge of her foe, combat has never been our strong suite.”

“What do you care if these girls fall in battle?” Jaime asked derisively. “One dies and another is called. They are, without exception, expendable to your cause.”

“I did not come to defend myself.” she sighed. “Ser, she cannot be allowed to pursue any sort of dalliance with Harlon, not just because of her suit with Prince Joffrey. Were Sansa a lowborn girl, we would have taken her from her family, and ensured she remained alone. As it is, once she marries Joffrey and gets settled in the Red Keep, the Maester and myself will see to it that she will be left to her own devices, unless his Grace has need of her.”

“You mean to be her gaoler. You mean to whore her out as you see fit, and send her out like a faithful guard dog, to slay your monsters and your demons.” Jaime stated bitterly.

“We mean to serve the greater good.” the Septa said flatly. “A Slayer with emotional attachments make selfish choices. She would look to save her family, her friends and her lovers over the lives of the masses. She would choose Harlon’s life, should she fall in love with him, over the lives of everyone in this van.”

“When I think on the shape of your plans, I find myself understanding the depths of your vile logic. You found her a husband she could never love, all the while knowing she won’t live long enough to bear him any children. In the meantime, you have plucked her far from her family in the North.” Jaime ground out.

“Is there nothing you haven’t thought of? Oh wait, of course there was something you missed. You doddering old fools had not accounted for the fact that on top of the crown’s request for her hand, they had also sought her Lord Father’s own presence in King’s Landing. He will always be right there, by her side.”

The woman said nothing, choosing to glower in defeated silence.

“I will do nothing to prevent what little happiness Sansa can find. Do not think to ask it again of me. I will do everything that is within my power to thwart your will.” he said decisively. No matter that he didn’t like the thought of Harlon’s hands all over the young woman, he liked it even less, that these faceless fools sought to control every facet of Sansa’s life.

Digging his heels into his mount, Jaime put as much distance as he could, between himself and the Septa.

If he noticed Sansa and the squire sneaking off in the heat of the afternoon, Jaime said nothing, choosing instead to ignore the strange ache in his chest. Instead, the man sought out the Queen, and chose to lose himself in the arms of his twin; after all, she was whom he truly belonged with.

 _There was simply no other woman for him_ , he reminded himself as he moved inside Cersei, allowing himself to forget all else for the moment.

It almost worked. Watching the shy smiles the young couple exchanged later however, and the telltale blush in Sansa’s cheeks, Jaime fought to keep a scream from tearing out his chest.

***

They were a week away from King’s Landing when Harlon’s absence was missed. The knight he attended, Ser Willym, stuttered nervously at a frowning Sansa, asking if she’d seen his erstwhile Squire.

“What would the Lady know of his whereabouts?” Jaime cut in, deciding in an instant that he had to nip whatever impressions the two careless lovebirds had left on the royal party.

“Ser, he has been seen lingering in the company of the Lady Sansa in recent days…” Willym said anxiously, fiddling with a belt that did nothing to conceal his wide girth.

“She is not his keeper, and were I in your shoes, I would be wary of asking the Prince’s intended where some random, idiot squire has disappeared off to.” Jaime said in his most imperious tone, staring down the length of his nose at the other man. For better or worse, he had plenty of experience warning off those that would chance to expose the secret he shared with his sister.

Bowing hastily, Ser Willym took the hint and scuttled away, looking like a fat bug running for its life. Looking down at Sansa, Jaime caught the concerned frown she wore as she stared after the fleeing man.

“I haven’t seen Harlon in two days.” she confided quietly. “Last we spoke, he had promised he’d ride beside me when we crossed the threshold into the city.”

A prickle of apprehension ran up Jaime’s spine as he considered the possibilities. The closer they got to the Capital, the more vampires they had come across over the past nights. To think he’d never noticed their presence, when the Crownlands were crawling with undead demons.

Under his clothing, the man sported more than a few bruises from a recent run in, leaving his movements a little stiff.

“Surely your men aren’t savaging you,” Cersei had inquired with a wrinkle in her nose only an hour ago as they dressed themselves in the shadows of a dirty shed.

“It’s not a challenge unless they mean it.” Jaime smiled wryly as he covered himself.

The Queen had accepted his explanation without further comment, dropping a kiss on his lips before she hurried away. Feeling strangely guilty, he accepted her token of affection. If she noticed his distracted mood during their tryst, the woman said nothing.

Still, Jaime reminded himself to see to his wounds the moment they arrived in the Red Keep. The knight meant to size the Grand Maester up and gauge what the Slayer was truly working against.

Pycelle was by no means a stranger to him, and as it already stood, his trust in the man was parchment thin. On King Aery’s final day, the man of the Citadel had proven himself a traitor in Jaime’s eyes, though at the end of it, who was he, the Kingslayer, to judge?

There was a chance of course, that the other man had honestly considered that betraying the Mad King to Tywin Lannister was for the greater good.

Regardless, the thought that Sansa’s life rested in the Grand Maester’s hands...the fact that the old man was not who Jaime thought he was...

The realization that he scarcely or truly knew the old man despite years of shared history chafed at the knight. It needed to be rectified - immediately.

“I’m sure the boy will turn up. He seems intent on becoming a fixture in your retinue…” Jaime said, hiding his sourness at the thought.

Sansa sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid that is true. I have tried to tell him that while I enjoy his company on this journey…what we share cannot prevail past the threshold of King’s Landing. Honestly, I find that I am relieved not to have seen him in recent days…now though…”

The knight did not like to think as to what the two had shared. Indeed, the Slayer and he fought in close enough proximity every night, he had seen the lovebites the young squire had marked on her fair skin. The sight had, on more than one occasion, sent him spiralling into a murderous rage, one which resulted in the brutal and painful ends of more than one fanged foe.

Nevertheless, what Sansa said cheered him to no end. He had no wish to see the idiot dogging her every step. Even without the Stark girl spurning his advances, Jaime had already concluded that it was likely Joffrey’s domineering presence would have warned the boy off.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up.” Jaime smiled easily and assuringly.

***

The night started off quietly enough. Sansa had slunk out of her tent as the dinner hour wore into a night of carousing and women. As usual, Jaime had disappeared at the first opportunity, passing along his duties to the most senior among his guard, and had waited for her where the camp was least guarded.

These late hours had worn on him at first, but in the course of the weeks between Winterfell and King’s Landing, Jaime had become accustomed to sleeping fewer hours, and had in fact, come to find himself restless on the nights he did not wander with the Slayer.

As Sansa approached, Jaime was already beginning to think on how he would miss their jaunts in the forests and the moors, hunting down the dead that plagued the living. For the first time in a long time, since he had taken up her cause by her side, the knight could honestly consider his deeds worthwhile. After all, instead of killing in the name of one fallible King or another, he was defending the realm from something far older, and more dangerous.

To think that it was this slip of a girl who had given him a new purpose, he thought.

“My skin has been crawling all night. I’m afraid our little group has been followed closely ever since the sun fell beneath the horizon.” she said without preamble, drawing a stake from her sleeve.

On the alert, Jaime drew his sword. Silent as phantoms, the two melted into the dark, stalking the peripheries of the camp. After the first few circuits of nothing, Sansa sighed impatiently.

“They’re here. I know it, I can feel them.”

They were close to where they had convened only minutes before. The sole guard who patrolled that particular place had returned. Rather than proceeding with his route, the man paused.

“Who's out there? Show yourself.”

The Slayer made to shrink away in caution, but Jaime stopped her with a firm grasp of her shoulders. Across from them, a lone figure stumbled into view.

“Harlon…” Sansa said softly, though there was dread in her voice.

“I’ve been injured…” the squire stumbled, clutching at what appeared to be a bleeding wound in his gut. “Please, won’t you help me…”

Recognizing the boy who had only just disappeared recently, the guard lowered his weapon and ran forwards…

Only to be greeted with a mouthful of fangs. Before the man could scream, Harlon had buried his monstrous teeth into the thick neck of the soldier.

Jaime felt, rather than saw Sansa’s distress.

Already, other vampires were convening at the edges of the camp, looking inwards in perverted excitement. Without wasting a minute, Jaime ran towards the group, before they realized that they weren’t unchallenged.

The Slayer overtook him with ease, only for the closest creature to lash out at her, kicking her hard enough to send her sprawling. In retaliation, Jaime swung hard and true, dusting the offensive creature before immediately moving to face another three.

“It’s the Kingslayer,” one of them hissed in fear.

“I see only supper.” the most hideous one among them leered.

Sansa, Jaime knew, should have retorted by now with something she thought clever. Instead, the Slayer climbed to her feet in silence, staring down their enemies with disturbing blankness.

Though Jaime had his hands full hacking and slicing at his opponents, he could see that the smooth skin of her neck had been opened, and blood was seeping forth. Whatever magic she carried in her blood, called to the vampires, sending them into a frenzy as they tried to approach her.

It made it easier for him to dispatch them in their distracted state, he found, but the way they clamoured to reach for a taste of her blood bothered him greatly.

Only Harlon seemed to retain his composure, watching as his peers all got slaughtered before his eyes. For a fledgling, the vampire was showing remarkable restraint, though Jaime wagered, it had everything to do with the way his dark eyes followed Sansa’s every move in cold calculation. The demon wore his human mask as he observed the proceedings.

It was only when he was the only one left standing, that he spoke into the night. Rising rose from a crouched position, Jaime circled to the Slayer’s right hand side, readying his sword for the final blow.

“I had no idea what to think, when I awoke at moonrise yesterday. All I could remember was the fear, the pain, and my sire’s visage as he drained me.” Harlon said in conversational tones, strolling towards the pair of warriors. “My sire whom incidentally, you just killed. Good thing too. I couldn’t spend five minutes with the man - didn’t quite fancy an eternity listening to his droning.”

“You don’t have an eternity.” Jaime said shortly, eager to end the fight.

“Wait your turn ser.” the fledgling snarled, his handsome face briefly transforming to his true, demonic visage. “I promise, we have much to discuss.”

“Harlon, I failed you…” Sansa spoke at last. It was the voice of a woman who was breaking inside.

“Failed me? Nay sweet lady. In spurning me, you freed me. After you told me to leave your side, I stumbled to my salvation.” the vampire laughed. “While I still drew breath, I spent my days frightened of better men and scared of my many failings. I was terrified that you would never love me the way I loved you, once you discovered the pitiful creature I truly was.”

“You didn’t love me,” the Slayer stated as a matter of fact. “You didn’t even know me.”

The creature stopped a few feet before her. “What _are_ you, pray?”

“I am the Chosen One.” Sansa said without any trace of modesty. Or bitterness. “I am she, who stands alone against the darkness. I am the Slayer and your doom.”

“We’ll see about that.” the vampire said. “Though I understand now why you could never love me. I was weak, and pathetic…unlike your companion here of course. I should have known I’d find you with the Kingslayer. There was always something not quite right between the two of you.”

“I couldn’t love you because I didn’t have anything left to love you _with_ Harlon,” Sansa said almost gently, subtly adjusting her stance. “I don’t expect you to understand. When I was called to be the Slayer, they took my future, and with it, any hope that I could give myself away. And when they took my wolf from me…”

 _That couldn’t be true_ , Jaime wanted to say aloud.

“That would explain why bedding you was like sticking my cock in a cold carcass.” Harlon laughed cruelly. “For a slut such as you, who dallies with one such as Jaime Lannister, I should have expected better. When I kill you, I will be freeing Prince Joffrey from having to ever suffer your frozen cunt.”

“Enough of this. You were a fool while you lived, and death hasn’t changed it one bit.” Jaime growled. Whatever the former squire had said had struck home with the Slayer, judging from the way she paled.

“Lannister, I already said…”

The vampire looked down in disbelief at his chest, where a wooden stake had been buried. “Oh. Oh I…”

Whatever it was he had been about to say, Jaime would never know, nor did he care. Before Harlon’s dust had even touched the cold earth, he had turned towards his companion, his weapon sheathed away. The woman continued to stare blankly towards where the vampire had stood.

“Sansa, listen to me.” he said softly, grasping her shoulders. “Harlon loved you. That thing…it wore his face, but it wasn’t the boy. Do you understand me?”

“I failed him.” Sansa repeated, refusing to look at him. “It was my duty to save him, but I failed him. I should never have…I should never…”

Twisting out of his hands, she hissed, “Jaime, you have to go. Please. I will only get you killed. I can’t…if you ever become one of them…I couldn’t bear it.”

“No.” he said simply.

The Slayer made a strangled noise. Turning, she began to run, dashing away from the camp. Without hesitation, Jaime followed quickly, knowing how easy it would be for him to fall behind.

“Stop being a selfish child and listen to me.” he called after her, crashing through the foliage. The Slayer was not thinking; the two of them were making enough noise to wake even the dead who had yet to be turned. “Life isn’t a tale, or a song and there are no heroes. We give what we can, and do what we can, no more and no less. You were lied to, when they told you the weight of the world rested on your shoulders. Do you not understand how easy it is for them to control you, simply by making you responsible for every death you couldn’t prevent?”

He could see that at least some of what he said was sinking in, as Sansa slowed her steps.

“I will not abandon you. Not unless you want me to.” Jaime finished, catching up with her under the heavy boughs of an old oak tree.

Ill-advised as it was, he reached out and spun her around. Firmly, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping an arm around her waist and cupping the base of her neck as he did so.

“You don’t seem to understand.” she said at last, her voice coated in self-recrimination.. “You have become…someone important to me ser. If something were to happen to _you_ , I would never forgive myself. It’s a sin to think this, but a part of me is glad that it was not you I had to slay this night but Harlon. And he’d been the first man I had ever…by the Seven, Jaime, he was my first lover, and tonight, I had to end him.”

Hearing it out loud, made what had just transpired even uglier. Indeed, whatever secret jealousies he had held against the boy faded into pity for both the squire’s fate, and for the young woman before him. They had no future, that had been certain - for their affair to end as it did…

Tightening his hold on Sansa, the knight was filled with new determination to be her anchor in a cruel world, the way in which she was fast becoming his.

“I am responsible for my own life.” Jaime stated with conviction. “Don’t send me away. Not now. You and I, we’ve been through enough. I can’t leave you, and if you made me…”

“Ser…” she murmured, searching his expression. “The problem is, I seem unable to ask it of you. That is, to ask that you take your leave of me.”

The man could not keep his heart from surging in elation at her words, though he knew that very sentiment was the source of her current misery.

“I don’t think I could walk away even if I wanted to.” he murmured, under a strange spell woven from moon and starlight. Softly, he stroked the nape of her neck with the tips of his fingers. “And I don’t want to. You don’t know it but - you’ve given me back a purpose.”

Unbelievably, the woman managed a wan but sincere smile, belying the sorrow in her eyes. Their foreheads leaned and pressed against each other.

There was something holy about the moment, Jaime found himself thinking with uncharacteristic sentimentality. There was something binding in the way they were touching each other, away from the eyes of both the living and the dead.

“We should be getting back. I believe for me, the hunt is over for the night.” the Slayer sighed. Perhaps it was his imagination, but she seemed as reluctant to leave his embrace as he was loathe to release her.

To satiate what unspoken longing lay between them, Jaime would not let go of her hand. The look in his eyes dared her to try defying his will in that. Slowly, they wended their way back to the camp with their fingers tightly interlaced. Neither of them were willing to let go of the other, until they were within sight of the fires that had been lit to ward off the dark and the cold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Sansa bond over sharp things. And sex. They bond over other people having sex. 
> 
> Warning: Bad snark ahead.

_The world was a cold, white waste. She was surrounded by rock and ice and the blue, blue eyes of the dead who crowded around her, in a stifling mess of bone, rust and rot. Behind her, she knew the Wall reached high into the sky, cutting her off from the rest of Westeros._

_Spinning in a circle, the Slayer could not keep a distinct wave of fear from rising in her breast as she judged her lifeless companions._

_She had not thought death had undone so many._

_These were not the dead she had come to know. These did not know their own minds, or their own memories - nothing that once defined their living selves remained inside the shell of their bodies. Vampires, at least, still knew who they were, knew their own names. They were slaves only to their bloody appetites, but then again, so was every living soul._

_No. These corpses were, each and everyone, held in thrall to their silent master, who stood menacingly over the gathering of corpses. The creature’s frozen and malignant gaze was fixed upon the Wall._

_Slowly, the Slayer approached the figure, as Luwin’s voice droned in her ear._

_“The Night King rises in the North. He comes for the living, and soon, all shall fall before his frozen hand if no one will stand up to his might.”_

_“You sent me South.” Sansa heard herself telling him. In her hands, she gripped the pommel of her father’s sword Ice._

_No, not her father’s sword. Just one very much like it however._

_It’s blade gleamed in the wavering light of the winter sun._

_“If you do not find a way, even the line of Slayers will be ended, and all will be lost.” Luwin’s voice rose in a wail of sorrow._

_One of the dead turned his blue, blue gaze towards her._

_To her horror, she found that herself looking upon a face she would know anywhere._

“Jon!” Sansa cried out, sitting up in her tent. Panting heavily, the Slayer leapt to her feet, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there.

Eventually, as the waking world encroached on her consciousness, Sansa calmed herself, though she could not relinquish the fear that had been planted in her soul.

 _The Night King rises_ , Luwin’s voice whispered.

***

The city was everything and nothing like Sansa imagined.

Everything was bigger, louder, larger than anything she’d ever seen. Never in her life, had she seen so many people in one place. Never in her life, had she seen so many different types of people in one place, at that.

On the other hand, never had she encountered a stench quite like what she smelled, the moment they came within sight of the spires of the city.

Looking around her, Sansa was suddenly certain that her Slayer powers no doubt, heightened the foul smells of the city in a way that affected none of her fellow travellers. Even her Septa cast her a sympathetic look, as they approached the gates.

Jaime on the other hand, chortled unhelpfully at the way she wrinkled her nose in immediate disgust. Despite his merriment at her expense, there was something infinitely tender in the way he gazed upon her. There was something about how he looked at her that made the rest of the world fall away.

Foolishness, she knew. His heart belonged to another, and if she had an ounce of sense, she would do well to remember that he regarded her the way he regarded his fellow soldiers.

It had been mere days since she slew poor Harlon, who had sworn to be by her side as she entered the city. The memory of his last words, even if it had been spoken by the demon that wore his body, stung less than the look of betrayal on his face as she buried her stake in his chest with a quick flick of her wrist.

Harlon, who had made her remember all the foolish dreams she once had, of songs and stories and romance. The way he had looked at her had made Sansa forget what she truly was during the precious few minutes they spent together each day. Indeed, she felt as if she could have been the innocent, sweet damsel he seemed to regard her as…

Even as he had taken the last of her innocence under the shade of a willow tree, he had whispered the sweetest of endearments to her, pledging his heart and his soul. She supposed she shouldn’t have done it, pledged as she was to another, the son of the King no less. But in allowing the squire into her most secret of places, Sansa considered the act a symbol of defiance, an act to prove her body was still hers.

Having to reduce his body to dust hurt, and likely, it would continue to hurt her for the rest of her life. No matter what Jaime said, the boy had been under her protection, and more than that, he had meant something to her, even if she could never have loved him.

Yet it was never with Harlon, that she had felt even a measure of freedom.

Rather, it was when she raced in the dark with Jaime by her side, it was when she slashed at her foe, knowing that close by, the man was doing the same to his opponent, when she felt most at ease.

There was no pretence between the two of them. There was no need for her to be something she wasn’t - that is, a sweet and gentle lady instead of a brutal warrior.

She knew him by reputation even before he had ridden to the gates of Winterfell of course. From the hushed whispers of her parents, who had no idea their daughter could hear them through the stone walls of their home, the man was himself a monstrous, evil creature who had thought nothing of breaking his oaths, murdering the king he had sworn to protect.

Unless she was truly such a fool, there was nothing about Jaime that made her believe he was disingenuous towards her.

Such that she trusted him with her very life, she admitted in her heart, fighting to keep from smiling back at him.

“Sansa, I know you still hold anger in your heart for what happened with Lady.” her father said, riding close to her, dragging the woman out of her reveries. “But we are starting anew in this place…and I would that we could mend our hurts.”

“I would be lying if I told you my heart did not break.” Sansa admitted. “But father, you must know by now that I will always love you.”

Wanly, she smiled at Ned. She didn’t add of course, that she would never forgive him for what he had done, but that didn’t mean that she stopped loving the man, or that he was any less her father.

“I am blessed to have a daughter such as you.” Ned said, trying to appear as if he were unmoved. “You and Arya both.”

“Has she forgiven me?” Sansa asked, only half in jest. There had been a time not so long ago, that she did not care for her sister’s opinion of her. That time had been before she knew of what waited for every living soul in the eaves of night, and how they threatened everyone and everything she cared for.

Her father glanced over at her with a pleased smile.

“Unlike you Sansa, Arya has a lot of growing up to do. I never told you but…I know how you tried to protect her that day. She told me of all that happened. Ill fated as it was, I hope you understand that I’m proud of you.”

Swallowing, Sansa dipped her head. Those words from her father, she had only ever heard uttered to her brothers, both older and younger alike. This was the first time Ned applied those same sentiments to her.

“Sansa…if you have cause to reconsider your suit. I hope you understand that I’m not the one holding you to it. I only agreed to it in the first place because I thought it was what _you_ wanted.” Lord Stark said haltingly.

Without quite meaning to, Sansa looked over to Jaime, who had ridden up to join his fellow Kingsguard. They flanked the King as he approached the Red Keep, guarding him from the pawing hands of the smallfolk.

While it was true she wanted nothing to do with the cruel, callous prince, his vindictive mother, or his brutish father.

Yet…

Jaime.

Jaime, whose place was in the Red Keep, by Robert’s side. Jaime, her friend, and her only true confidante.

“May I think on this?” she asked quietly.

“Time runs short. They will want a wedding in the weeks to come.” Ned grunted. “But I will do everything to give you the time you need, daughter.”

 _Time_ , she thought wryly. _As if a slayer had that luxury._

***

Barely had she been settled into her new quarters, when the summons came for her. The Grand Maester, it seemed, was impatient to meet his new Slayer, and had sent his orders through through a small, harried looking man named Vycter, who himself wore the distinct chain of one who served with the Citadel.

Curtly, Sansa was told in no uncertain terms that she was to present herself to the Grand Maester Pycelle immediately after supper in the old man’s chambers - and to be prepared for the hunt.

“How does he expect me to dine with the King and Queen, whilst fully armed?” Sansa demanded. To her annoyance, the man stared uncomprehendingly at her, as if her question made no sense.

“She will be there.” her Septa sighed, and ushered the young Maester away. Turning to the Slayer, she said, “No swords tonight then. And I suppose you will need to fight in your dress.”

“I already despise this man,” Sansa said flatly, before resigning herself to the likely fact that she was going to absolutely ruin yet another dress. There were however, upsides, she reflected brightly. Full Skirts allowed for hidden pockets, all of which could be filled with multiple stakes and blades; breeches, though more functional and allowed her better freedom of movement, did not give her as much room for stashing sharp objects.

Unbeknownst to all but the Septa, in the past year, Sansa had applied her considerable sewing skills towards turning her clothing into secret, moveable weapons caches. If the servants had even guessed what those new pockets were for as they saw to the cleaning of her gowns, no doubt, they would have fainted in horror, much as Catelyn Stark herself might if ever she found out.

In the Great Hall, as soon as she stepped into the room, Jaime caught sight of her choice in clothing and immediately cast her an understanding smirk. He had seen her don this particular dress before, and had expressed his honest delight at her ingenuity. Close by, his sister glowered at her in jealous suspicion, her eyes flitting once again between her brother and Sansa.

Deciding that ignoring the Queen was the best course of action, Sansa allowed her gaze to drift as she found her place not far from the high table. Her intended refused to look at her, as was his wont since their misadventure in the Riverlands. No matter, she thought with grim amusement. She supposed the both of them would have no choice but to face their fates soon enough.

The part of her that had once been fascinated by the tales of the court and the songs of old appreciated the fine tapestries that surrounded her. Somewhere close by, a singer had lifted his voice in song, serenading the stately procession of knights, lords and ladies.

All too quickly, the evening meal passed. As the night’s entertainments began, the young woman found herself being ushered from her seat by an anxious Septa. Catching the emerald eyes of Jaime, Sansa smiled weakly and hurried away from the hall.

As the two woman fumbled their way towards the Grand Maester’s quarters, Sansa’s frown transformed into a bright grin as the Knight of the Kingsguard rounded a corner, and gallantly extended his elbow.

“I had a feeling you would find yourself lost my Lady.” he laughed softly, ignoring the familiar sight of a fuming Septa.

“Ser, I find myself in need of the Grand Maester’s service,” she told him.

“I find I have a need to see him myself, on account of some recent injuries I acquired.” he mused.

As revellers passed the trio, they bowed and curtsied respectfully to Sansa, while casting Jaime furtive looks of distrust mixed with grudging respect.

Arm in arm, the two strolled through the castle and together, stepped into the Maester’s quarters.

“Ser Jaime!” the man croaked, looking surprised as he stood up to receive his visitors. He looked quizzically at the closeness between the knight and the Slayer. “To what do I owe the pleasure…”

“Save it.” the man stated. “I know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t…” Pycelle stuttered, looking everything like a weak old man.

“Maester, Ser Jaime knows I am the Slayer.” Sansa said calmly, stepping forwards. Before their eyes, the doddering figure straightened.

“How could you be so irresponsible?” he asked the Slayer in a mild tone, sweeping his eyes over her form. “Surely Luwin and your Septa here must have told you that your duties are to be kept secret?”

“She saved me from a pack of ravening vampires during our journey down from Winterfell.” Jaime drew his dagger and studied its sharp blade meaningfully. “I have fought by her side ever since. I did not in fact, leave her a choice in the matter.”

“This is most irregular.” Pycelle shook his head in consternation. Sighing, he turned a glare on Septa Mordane, who looked down in shame. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“Odd. I was going to ask you the exact same question,” Jaime said smoothly. “The Septa can’t answer me, so perhaps you can educate me on why the Citadel insists on sending young girls to their death.”

“It’s the way it has always been.” the Grand Maester sighed. “Truly, it grieves me each time a Slayer falls. I despise this waste of young lives, so full…so very full of…”

Everything he said rang false in Sansa’s ears. It didn’t help that the man kept casting appraising looks upon her body, sweeping his pale, watery eyes over her form in a way that suggested that he was indeed, interested in more than her fighting abilities. 

The old man’s regard left her feeling exposed and sullied. It was a challenge, she found, to keep her back straight and her features impassive, when really, Sansa wanted nothing more than to shrink away, to wrap her arms around herself in such a way as to hide her body from the Grand Maester’s roving eyes.

There was nothing of Luwin’s loving, fatherly concern within this man’s heart. This she could plainly tell.

Jaime must have seen the desire in the old man’s perusal; either that, or he had somehow sensed Sansa’s growing revulsion. The knight moved in such a way as to block the Maester’s lascivious gaze, and growled very pointedly, “Yes, I’m sure it grieves you to lose these able young females each time, only to have them replaced immediately by yet another hapless one. You will not use Sansa in any way more than her duty requires. Are we clear?”

The implications in his words, though vulgar, told the Slayer that her instincts about the Maester were accurate.

Huffing, Pycelle looked outraged, though there was a guilty shine in his eyes.

“It’s all very well that you know of vampires and what a Slayer’s role is. Nonetheless, now that she has been safely delivered to the city, she must undertake her duties alone.” he stated stiffly.

“I have come ready to hunt.” Sansa offered. “Though I would have preferred if you had allowed me to change into something more suited than a dress.”

“Indeed. I would that you were a low born girl my lady,” Pycelle shook his head with false regret. “Believe me when I tell you, your high birth makes this endeavour far more complicated that it usually is.”

“How unfortunate for you,” the Slayer quipped dryly.

“I will get you properly garbed in the armoury.” Jaime said, turning his attention from the Maester. “Though I know you have an armoury in those layers.”

“Ser Jaime, I know you have the best of intentions. No doubt, you wish to lend the lady your protection.” the Grand Maester coughed. “But you must see how you might hurt her. Sansa must learn to fight alone because you will not always be there. You are your father’s eldest son and one of the King’s own guard. You have other duties that require your presence.”

Sansa would have been lying if she hadn’t already thought of this eventuality. She could not in fact, fault the old man’s logic; judging from the black look on Jaime’s face, neither could he.

“Fine. Tonight will not be the night however. Your Slayer almost found herself lost in the castle.” Jaime grumbled.

If the man thought to argue, whatever he saw in Jaime’s visage caused Pycelle to think twice. Sighing, he said, “There’s a nest somewhere under the Street of Silk. I would suggest you start there. Lord Baelish has been complaining about poor business in recent days.”

“Ah, so we are to see to the brothel owners’ success.” the anointed knight sneered. “Very well then.”

“Brothels?” Sansa asked faintly, as a blush rose in her cheeks. While it was true she could no longer consider herself a maiden, the thought of mingling with whores and their patrons still gave her pause.

“Grand Maester, surely there are missions to where the Lady Sansa could better ease herself into the city…” Septa Mordane spoke up unexpectedly. The holy woman looked aghast at the thought of her charge being made to witness tableaus of sin.

“I’m afraid that is the mission.” Pycelle said sadly, though again, Sansa heard the false ring in his voice.

“How very noble, this mission.” Jaime grunted. Softening his gaze as he turned to Sansa, he reluctantly held out his arm once again. “I’ll do my best to aid you and get you back here quickly. I promise.”

“I wish you good hunting Slayer.” Pycelle said, dismissing her as if she were naught but a serving girl. He paused. “And you, Ser Jaime. I pray you see that this task is best left to Slayers, and the wisdom of the Citadel and the Sept.”

***

Not only did Sansa take Jaime up on his offer of the armoury, but she was delighted at the array of weapons that was suddenly available to her.

“Is this - Jaime - is this a Morning Star?” the Slayer picked up the weapon with glee. “I saw it in a book in Luwin’s library.”

“Woman, do watch where you swing that.” Jaime chided, ducking away in the nick of time as Sansa began enthusiastically to wave the weapon about. “But yes, that is a bloody Morning Star. You do know, other girls get this excited about gowns.”

“Well why don’t you find _other girls_ to spend your evenings with?” she snorted, tucking the weapon into her new belt. Already, Sansa had garbed herself in brand new leathers and boots. Her tall frame made it easy for her to find new clothing for herself, in the barracks housing the soldiers.

“I tried. They all just mentioned something about brushing their hair.”

Sansa turned and looked over at her companion, who grinned lazily at her as he sat back on his bench. Her delight was utterly sincere, and she could tell that her exuberance was shared with Jaime.

“I would have rather spent my night brushing my hair.” she said staunchly and half honestly.

“No you wouldn’t.” he shook his head. “You like sharp things. Don’t think we could be friends if you didn’t.”

She couldn’t help it. Sansa answered his smile with one of her own.

Horrendously ironic, to think that she had found herself a knight that made her want to forget all else, but for reasons she could never have guessed. In the daydreams of her younger self, she supposed she would have conjured a version of her Jaime riding up to her tower with golden roses, reciting romantic lines of poetry at her. He certainly fit the image of her ideal knight, strong, golden and beautiful as he was.

Not, she reminded herself hastily, that he was _her_ Jaime.

Instead, here she was, waxing lyrical about…

“I don’t know how I went about my nights without a Glaive!” she exclaimed, distracted by the weapon that lay before her.

“Sansa, sweetling, do consider we’re supposed to be going unnoticed. If I were you, I would leave both the Morning Star and the Glaive behind.” Jaime said at last, carefully approaching the woman who was playing with her newest find almost reverently. “You’re properly garbed. You have about five new daggers hidden on your person…when all you really needed was two stakes, if I may add. It’s time we left - I want to kill something.”

“When did you become such a curmudgeon?” Sansa pouted, replacing the two offending weapons in question.

“Around the time you lost your mind and tried to steal the Red Keep’s entire weapons store.” Jaime deadpanned, making a show of hauling her away. “Come on. Before the whoremongers lose another copper.”

Stealing out of the armoury proved to be a challenge, but the two managed to slip out nonetheless. Once in the streets below, Jaime insisted that the young woman stay behind him, despite her protestations.

“I can take care of myself,” the Slayer whispered in annoyance as the knight shoved her so she remained behind him.

“Oh? And how would you defend yourself against those men? How would you hide?” Jaime asked, gesturing towards a drunken group who seemed eager to announce to the world they were seeking any willing body to satiate their questionable desires.

“I…” Sansa stuttered. Gazing upwards, she had her answer. With a fluid spring, the Slayer balanced herself precariously on the rooftop of a low building. Tossing her head triumphantly, Sansa looked down in amusement at an irritated Jaime. “I would start thinking of travelling the byways of those who would prefer not to be seen.”

His annoyance gave way to admiration, then amusement. “I suppose this means I’ll be following you through the sewers very soon. I look forward to seeing how your Slayer senses play out, even as you faint from the noxious fumes.”

Before she could properly find a retort, the man added, “Let’s play a game. Let’s see if you can follow me to the Street of Silk.”

With speed that could only have been borne of years of practice, Jaime darted through the streets. Surprised, Sansa stood immobilized at first, before she set her jaw determinedly, and began to follow.

The Slayer would not be bested by a mere mortal. It simply would not do.

Leaping over the gaps between the rooftops and dashing through small passageways, the eldest daughter of Ned Stark followed what little trail Jaime left behind. Masked by the pungent stench of King’s Landing, Sansa could barely pick up his essence as she bounded after his constantly disappearing figure.

Eventually, as she landed atop a building that seemed to sport several poles marked by silken flags of every colour, Sansa finally stopped running, staring down with wide eyes at a scene of debauched and hedonistic pleasure.

Here a woman laughed and danced with admiring men, clad in flimsy wisps of cloth that barely covered her breasts.

There a woman rubbed her bare bottom sensuously against a moaning soldier.

Through the sexual haze oozing in the air about her, Sansa could barely feel the familiar sensation of being surrounded by those who did not quite live, creeping under her skin.

“Sansa,” Jaime’s voice whispered from a small alley to her left.

Without wasting a second, the Slayer turned and leapt off the edge of the building. The landing was not quite as smooth as she would have liked, causing her to stumble directly into her companion’s strong arms. Her hood had pulled back, leaving her scarlet hair exposed. Jaime looked at her in a mixture of embarrassment and humour, though she could see a hint of regret in his eyes.

“It is much too bad you’ve had to be exposed to this filth,” he said quietly, not releasing his hold on her. “And I was a fool to have set you after me the way I did. I should have shielded your eyes from this.”

“Don’t be ridi…” Sansa was interrupted as a drunken man entered the alley, intent on relieving himself. The stranger caught sight of the two figures in the dark and leered openly at the Slayer.

“Boy, you have such pretty hair. Perhaps when your friend here is done, we could share our own private moment.”

The Stark daughter did not have to look to know that her companion had began to bristle. But she wasn’t interesting in bandying words - not when she could see that they were in fact, no longer alone in the passageway. Jaime and Sansa watched as four vampires stole into the shadows, their yellow eyes gleefully taking in the bounty they were being presented with.

“If you don’t duck, it is likely you’ll never share another private moment with anyone ever again.” she said, pulling away from the knight and reaching for a weapon.

“I’m sorry?” the inebriated man blinked in confusion.

“You idiot, look behind you.” Jaime hissed, drawing his sword.

Doing as he was told, the man turned and shrieked as he caught sight of the advancing fiends, before falling into a dead faint upon the filthy ground.

“Lads, looks like we feast tonight.” one of the vampires called.

“Lads, I expected much wittier banter now that I’m in the capital.” Sansa ran forwards as her blood surged within her. “This is rather disappointing.”

“What?” one of them asked, taking a step back instinctively. They were used to their prey running from them, not towards them.

“Seven hells, it’s the new Slayer!” one of them cried out in alarm. A well thrown dagger from Jaime struck the vampire’s shin and shattered what bone lay under his filthy breeches, preventing his retreat.

Not that escape was an option. With more ease than she expected, Sansa slew all vampires, save the one Jaime had crippled. Falling upon him, she lifted the vampire up by his neck and slammed the pathetically mewling creature into a crumbling wall.

“Where’s your nest?” she asked, pointing a stake directly above his heart.

“Why would I tell you?” he sneered, before gagging as Sansa’s grip tightened.

“We could do this the hard way,” she smirked. “Or we could…actually, there’s only the hard way.”

The Slayer knew the knight was rolling his eyes behind her as he retrieved his dagger from the ground.

“You stupid bitch, if you think…”

Jaime slid the tip of his blade through the creature’s ribcage, causing the vampire to draw in an unneeded breathe from the pain of it all.

“Address her properly.” Jaime said silkily. “And maybe the next blow will release you from this misery.”

“There’s an abandoned manse two streets away,” the vampire said through laboured gasps. His demonic mask had fallen away. Finally, his pain-filled eyes focused on Jaime’s face.

“Ser Jaime…” the vampire sounded shocked. “I served under you. Don’t you remember?”

“Friend of yours?” Sansa arched a brow.

“Come to think of it…Llewyn. That’s right.” Jaime looked consideringly at the undead soldier dressed in tattered rags of Lannister red. “I would ask how you’ve been but…”

“Ser please…” the vampire begged. “I swear, if you let me go, I won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

Jaime sighed. “Llewyn, you were going to be executed for the murder of a whore. You were a cutthroat while you lived, and you’re a monster now that you’re dead. It looks like justice found you nonetheless.”

“Let me introduce myself. I’m ‘Justice’, and you…” the Slayer rammed the stake into the former Lannister man’s heart. “…are dead.”

The knight cast her a sideways glance. “That one was a little weak even for you.”

“Says ‘Ser I-know-all-the-vampires-in-whoretown’,” Sansa sniffed self righteously, dusting the remains of the vampires from her dark clothing.

“I just go by Jaime, usually…” the knight sighed. “And it’s not called ‘whoretown’ Slayer. It’s the Street of Silk.”

“Speaking of, shall we find this manse?” Sansa asked. “I thought perhaps we could walk together on the ground this time.”

“Are you sure you want to walk through…” Jaime jerked a thumb towards the thoroughfare, looking a little surprised.

“I might as well learn more about the city I’m to protect. Including its upstanding denizens.” she replied with a shrug, whilst toeing the unconscious body of the man who had offered to buy her services.

Looking backwards at the mighty Kingslayer, Sansa got the distinct feeling she was going to see the generally smooth and unruffled knight experience embarrassment such as he had never displayed before, and she rather looked forward to it.

Before he could voice his protests aloud, she was off, walking into the thoroughfare with her hood drawn over her bright hair. She didn’t get very far however, before Jaime caught up with her.

Opening her mouth, Sansa’s first thought was to tease the man, to ask him if walking among such _people_ made him squeamish. Gallantly, she thought to promise him her considerable protection.

Unexpectedly however, his arm snaked possessively around her narrow waist as they walked through the boisterous street. Emerald eyes glared at any man who dared to look her way.

Sansa flushed hotly under the cowl of her hood, suddenly breathless.

They had been in close proximity many times before. Fighting side by side as they did, they necessarily came in contact all the time. However, this felt completely different. This was Jaime staking a claim on her in a way that made her want to lean into his large, protective frame, though at the same time, it made her want to bolt far, far away.

There was no future in whatever was brewing between them, and had been brewing since the night she slew Harlon. If she were honest with herself, the heat between them had been growing even prior to her dalliance with the squire. What had started as simple friendship between herself and Jaime, was quickly becoming something she wasn’t quite ready to truly acknowledge just yet. 

Still however...still she found herself wanting, found herself longing to find out what it would be like to be the object of his desire. 

Dangerous thoughts, all of it.

They passed an open doorway, where a man and a woman were brazenly copulating just past the threshold. The woman threw her head back in a moan, while the man squeezed at her ample bosom. Trying to pretend as if she weren’t affected by the tableau, Sansa said quite casually,

“She certainly seems like she’s a good actress.”

Jaime looked down at her, but she couldn’t stop staring at the scene of decadent pleasures unfolding before her. “What makes you think she’s acting?”

“She’s a whore. I assume the women who trade their flesh for gold would not have chosen this life if they had any other path.” Sansa said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps.” Jaime said mildly. “Or, it might be that because this is their lot, some of them may choose to make the best of it.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way.” Sansa frowned as her companion tugged at her arm, compelling her to stride as quickly as she could away from the Street of Silk.

“Slayer though you are, it is not your prerogative as a high born maiden to wonder what whores think of as they ply their trade.” Jaime made a face. “The Others take Pycelle, for putting you up to this.”

Sansa kept her thoughts to herself as they finally left the noise and the furor behind them. She couldn’t help but notice that the knight had not released his hold on her.

At last however, her secret musings on Jaime momentarily forgotten, she said with utter seriousness, “I have to hunt down all who plague the living, wheresoever they may be. In truth, perhaps my station has prevented me from understanding that it isn’t only me and mine that require protection. But tonight...it has occurred to me that all these people, all these whores and patrons and lords and ladies…how can it be that one deserves to live, while the other does not?”

“In my experience, the living plague the living.” Jaime said flatly. “You weren’t here in the final days of Aerys. He lived and breathed as you and I do, yet he thought nothing of torturing and killing any who displeased him.”

She had never heard him speak of it, the reasons he had been named ‘Kingslayer’ to begin with. Strangely afraid that he would stop revealing to her his own secrets, Sansa held her tongue.

“What he did to your uncle, and your grandfather...I was there when he murdered them slowly and painfully. I did nothing, because I could not defy my King, but believe me when I tell you, I wanted nothing more than to sink my sword into his belly.” Jaime breathed. “When my father was at the gates of this very city, and Aerys commanded that we should ‘burn them all’…”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow…” Sansa said softly.

“The King would have sent the entire city to its fiery doom, to ensure that any victory Robert Baratheon won would have been a hollow one.” the man’s grip on her waist tightened. “So. I killed the Mad King. I slew him as he tried to flee, because I judged the lives of all who dwelled in King’s Landing, worth more than the life of one madman."

“Are you telling me that you saved an entire city, and for that you were named Kingslayer?” Sansa stilled her steps in shock.

“It doesn’t matter.” The Kingslayer shook his head, refusing to meet her stare. “It’s over and it’s done.”

“Does my father know?” she found herself afraid of the answer because she already knew what it would be.

“Your father saw me seated on the throne. In hindsight, I suppose it made it look as if I meant to usurp the damned thing.” he laughed bitterly, finally withdrawing his hold on her. “It was far from my finest hour Sansa, make no mistake."

Sansa found herself horribly appalled at her own father’s myopic sense of honour, though she was at the same time, thoroughly unsurprised.

With disturbing clarity, it occurred to her that Lord Eddard Stark would likely never understand why she sought to defy her own calling as a Slayer, should he ever chance to be informed of her sacred duties.

Gazing at the knight, the Slayer’s heart broke for Jaime, as she beheld a side of him which he had hidden carefully away from prying eyes. Under layers of what she now understood was false arrogance, sarcasm, and conceit, here was a man who cared deeply for the fates of those who surrounded him. Enough that he had risked almost everything to save them. 

 _And what had his deeds earned him but scorn and hatred from those whom he had once saved_ , Sansa wondered bitterly. By the Seven...had she the power, the Slayer would avenge every last slight meted out towards Jaime Lannister, her _Kingslayer_.

Already, that word held new meaning to Sansa. In her mind, it was the title of a hero, the title of a knight who did his duty, and who protected the weak.

Tiptoeing upwards, Sansa pressed her lips against Jaime’s cheek.

It was the best she could have offered him by way of comfort.

Pulling back to look into his stunned green eyes, she said very softly, “I don’t care what they call you. To me, you are my brave, noble knight…I know no truer friend than you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to spiral, and Jaime gets an idea.

In recent days, he had known that what passed between himself and Sansa had left mere friendship behind. While her affair with poor Harlon had served to raise a measure of irrational anger within his chest, the night she slew what the squire had become, had forced Jaime to acknowledge the bent of his affections and his every waking thought.

He could not move from one minute to the other without thinking of when next he’d get to see the woman, get to touch her.

The thought of her marrying Joffrey, his own flesh and blood, now seemed inconceivable. Obscene even. There was little comfort to be drawn from the fact that Sansa had seen through his son’s act, and wanted nothing more than to be free of her own troth. The chains of their stations were invisible, but they held strong.

There was of course, the ever niggling reminder of what he had done in Winterfell, in service to the love he had shared with Cersei. There was the ever present knowledge that he did not truly deserve Sansa’s trust…along with the increasing understanding that there was something very wrong with the love he shared with his twin. Wrong in a way which had nothing to do with the fact that they were siblings.

It was puzzling his sister to be sure, as his growing reticence became more and more obvious each time they met in secret.

The night before they arrived in the capital, in the small castle the King’s party had stopped in, Cersei and he had managed to find a moment to themselves. As he dropped soft kisses along her skin, trying to dispel images of russet hair and blue eyes, his twin asked sharply, “What is it that takes you from me?”

“I am right here.” he nuzzled into her neck, breathing her in. The siblings lay entwined atop freshly laundered sheets, their skin sliding each other in a rhythm perfected through a lifetime of simply _knowing_ the shape of each other’s bodies.

Jaime remembered when a tryst like this would have made the world right, made him forget if only for a moment, the horrible things he had done, the sins he had committed.

“Lying to me is pointless - you should know that by now.” Cersei pushed him away. “You haven’t been yourself in weeks.”

“It’s been a long journey,” he protested as his temper rose within him. “And much has happened.”

“None of that should matter,” she stated as she sat up, her long golden tresses falling to hide her perfect breasts. Rubbing tiredly at his face, he pushed himself so that his back rested against the headboard.

In his nightly dealings with the soulless creatures roaming the land, Jaime found himself forced to consider if he was all that different from a vampire, who preyed on the weak and the helpless in the name of sating a perverted appetite. Now, for whatever reason, the man found he could no longer keep his silence on that which had been plaguing his thoughts.

“Sister, it is one thing for us to keep on loving each other. But truly...is it worth the cost? People have suffered for the sake of our secret, suffered greatly in fact.”

His sister looked at him in stunned silence, before fierce determination creased her brow.

“The whole world can burn. The only thing that matters is you and I.” She straddled him in one swift move. Studying his features, she raised an elegant, bejeweled hand and rested it against his cheek. “How could you even think to ask this?”

“Cersei, I had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way I became the Smiling Knight instead.” Jaime implored, gazing into green eyes that could have been his own. “Surely you _must_ see that what we did to Bran Stark, an innocent boy such as he was, could only be branded as _evil_ …”

“What does it matter what we did to him?” Cersei demanded, though the conviction ebbed away from her as surely as the tides fell away from the shores of Casterly Rock. Cheeks flushed by arousal and passion paled rapidly, leaving her vulnerable, tired and yes…guilty.

The Queen suddenly looked older than her years as she lifted her body away from Jaime’s touch. Climbing off the bed, she moved to pour herself a glass of wine from a carafe that stood not too far away.

“What we did was not good nor evil, but it was necessary. If he had told others of what he had witnessed…”

Had he not began his ill-advised friendship with Sansa Stark, Jaime wondered, would he have come to understand the true heinousness of his deeds in that broken tower? What kind of a man continued to fuck his lover, immediately after attempting to murder a child?

“You’re not wrong sweet sister. I did what I had thought was necessary to protect us…and now his face will haunt me till the day I die.” Jaime moved to stand behind her. Turning her to face him, he touched her lips and memorized again, how her skin felt under his touch as he gazed upon her beloved countenance. No matter his unspoken feelings for Sansa, his twin and he would always be a part of each other.

“What are you not saying?” his twin’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Such things have I done for us…” he said, drawing her into a soft kiss.

Melting together, Jaime found himself oddly missing Cersei, never mind that she was right there with him.

No, he thought as he steered his twin back towards the bed she shared with Robert. He did not deserve Sansa’s friendship, let alone whatever affection he craved from her.

What he could control however, were his actions and thoughts, the way he had meant to do when he had taken his oaths to Aerys. Again, he considered wistfully, he had Sansa to thank for returning a clarity of vision to him.

 

***

It was all very well to be noble when he was deep in the throes of self reflection and good intentions.

But then, the Slayer had gone and strolled openly into the Street of Silk, the market of flesh and hedonism, and it was as if he could no longer form a single coherent thought, the moment the first man turned his lustful gaze upon her. Simply knowing that most of the males she strolled passed were undressing Sansa with their eyes sparked in him, an unholy jealousy that made him want to slit every single bastard’s throat.

The way they looked at her, told him that they all thought her body and her services were for sale, and they were, each and every one of them. eager to dig into their pockets for the pleasure of her attention.

Sansa herself seemed to have no idea that even dressed as a boy, even with her hair and figure obscured by a dark cloak, her fine features and Tully eyes captured the gaze of every man in her path.

The fact that there wasn’t a corner of King’s Landing where the court hadn’t eyes and ears did not escape him, but in that moment, the madness that exploded in Jaime’s mind caused him to utterly disregard that knowledge.

On the edge of the kingdom of whores, without even thinking on his actions, Jaime threw himself into the brightly lit chaos, and pulled Sansa snugly against his body.

There was a moment when he could have sworn he heard a small gasp of surprise emanating from her lips, right before she melted against him. The swell of desire he experienced then, promised to wash over him, to drown him forevermore.

If he didn’t start reining himself in, catastrophe was bound to follow. The trouble however, was that Jaime didn’t want to rein himself in. Not there, not when other men wanted to touch what was _his_.

Trudging though the filth, Jamie’s emerald eyes promised death to any who dared cast aspersions on _his_ woman. His left hand clutched at the dagger by his side, a clear and insistent threat to those who lusted after Sansa.

They had no right to look at her, he decided, much less want her. 

Of course, if it wasn’t bad enough that his own desire for Sansa was choosing to make him behave the fool, they simply had to stumble on a business transaction.

And oh, but what a transaction it was.

Having to witness the act of love - or at least lust - with Sansa by his side, served to make things even more complicated. Likely, it escaped her notice that the whore they witnessed servicing her enthusiastic patron was a redhead, while the man she had been riding was himself, as golden haired as he was.

“She certainly seems like she’s a good actress.” The Slayer said in a strange, breathy voice that set his head spinning even further out. Turning to look down at her, Jaime bit back a groan as she darted a small pink tongue out and licked softly at her lips.

“What makes you think she’s acting?” He asked, thanking the gods he was still able to form words at all.

“I mean…she’s a whore. I assume the women who trade their flesh for gold would not have chosen this life if they had any other path.” Sansa replied, keeping her eyes peeled upon the coupling duo.

As for himself, he had eyes only for Sansa, oh Gods, Sansa...

_Gods but it would be sweet to taste her._

In his mind’s eye, Sansa arched and cried out in ecstasy as she sank onto his cock, exactly as the pair before them were openly displaying to the world. Curling his fingers hard into her clothed hip, Jaime almost growled aloud in frustration.

He could make it good for Sansa, he thought. He could make it so good, she wouldn’t ever so much as _look_ at another man again. His would be the only body she ever wanted, ever enjoyed; never again would anyone else’s fingers caress her soft skin. 

 _Fool_ , a cold voice in his mind somehow broke through his madness. _Someone is absolutely watching the both of you_.

While Jaime did not truly know the details of how Vary’s or Littlefinger’s network of spies worked, the knight was aware that many a Lord and Lady had been compromised on this very avenue, within the establishments that surrounded the two warriors. It didn’t help that the very brothel they stood before, belonged to one Lord Petyr Baelish.

It was unlikely the eldest son of Tywin Lannister and the daughter of Edward Stark would remain unrecognized for long, yet here he was, gaping at Sansa like an idiot.

Pulling himself out of his fantasies with some difficulty, Jaime steered the Slayer firmly and quickly, guiding their steps until they had left the throngs of revellers behind.

So distracted was he, the Kingslayer barely noticed his own loose tongue until it was too late.

***

The knight of the Kingsguard stared down at the young woman. Like a brand, her kiss continued to tingle upon his cheek where she had kissed him.

“I don’t care what they call you. To me, you are my brave, noble knight…I know no truer friend than you.”

Swallowing hard, the desire he had been attempting to quash roared to the fore. His hands moved swiftly, cupping Sansa’s soft cheeks in his hands under her hood as he bent down and finally claimed her lips in a searing kiss.

The moment her mouth parted and her tongue darted out to meet his, Jaime wanted to fall to his knees in gratitude, for what gods could have allowed a woman such as Sansa to want someone as sullied and as broken as he.

Foregoing his moment of unlikely piety, he tugged at Sansa so she rested flush against him. Her hands settled on his chest, trapped between them as he plundered her mouth in an endless kiss, which was everything he had dreamed of and more.

Sansa was like molten heat against him, pulling and roiling at the blood within his veins. The man never wanted their embrace to end...already, Jaime understood that he had just taken a step off a crevasse, from which there was no turning back.

Reality called to him as a group of drunken fools passed, all hollering bawdy suggestions towards the entangled pair.

“Ser?” she murmured hazily against his mouth, her voice thick with confusion and arousal.

Gods but he would take her right there, but that he understood the very new dangers they suddenly faced that had nothing to do with vampires, and everything to do with who they actually were.

“Sansa,” he said very seriously. “You don’t know how much it pains me to stop. But you are still the Prince’s betrothed, and I...”

“The Queen...she has need of you...” she nodded understandingly; her eyes were still heavy lidded as she looked up at him dreamily,

Jaime stiffened as Sansa blinked in realization of what she had just spoken aloud.

How this slip of a girl managed to render him utterly speechless in a span of minutes, he had no idea.

“I am the Slayer,” she said gently, curling her fingers nervously. “You must have suspected by now, that I can...sense things more than most. How did you think I followed you from the Red Keep as easily as I did? Were I anyone else, I would have lost you miles before.”

He couldn’t stop himself. Jaime laughed aloud, feeling embarrassment washing over him rather than shame...along with a sense of elation that Sansa knew of his affair with Cersei, and still thought nothing of returning his ardour.

“We can’t do this again.” She murmured, but made no move to separate herself from him.

“We _shouldn’t_ ,” he corrected, already wanting to resume their embrace. “Sansa, you cannot marry Joffrey. Not now, not ever. And as for me...”

Trailing off, he leaned forwards and pressed his mouth against her own once more, pulling her hood down with his left hand so that he could card his fingers through her tresses.

Had he ever wanted any woman as much as he wanted Sansa right then? 

With piercing clarity, he understood that never again could he find his way to Cersei’s bed. That thought pained him almost as much as Sansa’s touch now stirred his heart and his desires. Distantly, he thought of his father, and his insistent demand that Jaime forsake his white cloak, for the sake of preserving the family name...

“What did I say lads? What’s the point of hunting for our supper, when it comes straight to us?” Something laughed above them.

Smiling against each other’s lips, the duo separated and drew their weapons as one, facing the yellow eyed demons leaping down from the rooftops to surround them.

“Would you look where we stand?” Sansa asked aloud. “I believe this is the empty manse your friend Llewyn spoke of.”

These fiends had picked the wrong night for a fight, Jaime thought. There was nothing he couldn’t do just then. The Slayer’s embrace lit his blood like nothing else in the world could. In that moment, Jaime knew he could have taken on a dragon and he would have  _won_.

Maybe.

The knight swung.

***

Shortly before they arrived at the palace gates, dusty and a tad bloody, Jaime pulled Sansa into the shadows of a side street and once again, kissed her soundly with her back against the walls of the very keep they were returning to.

“I shall speak to my father.” She promised as they parted, looking shyly up at him through her long lashes. “Though Jaime, it could mean that he would want me to return to Winterfell.”

“Then...” he murmured, trailing his lips against the delicate shell of her ears. “We shall sail across the sea, where we can live as man and woman, not Kingslayer and Slayer.”

“Aye,” she laughed, and there was _joy_ in her laughter. Joy. He had done that, he had made her _joyful_. “That would be sweet indeed.”

“I’m serious Sansa.” he whispered urgently. “I have never cared for titles and names. Those have always been the prerogatives of Cersei and Tyrion. But I know I care for you.”

“I would be free of this curse that is my calling,” she replied with equal gravity. “But the hour grows late and even I grow weary. Let us speak on this later.”

One last time Jaime kissed her, before they crept in through one of the hundreds of warrens leading to the castle proper.

***

The next few days saw Jaime returning to his duties with a vigor he hadn’t felt in a long time. The world seemed brighter and the air seemed fresher. At night, he traversed the city with Sansa, guiding her through it’s maze-like streets and stealing kisses between frays. He had yet to tire of her sweetness, of the small noises she made at the back of her throat as he explored all the ways he could make her moan…and he had yet to even peel back her clothes.

Even having to face a disapproving Ned during the first few Small Council meetings could not spoil his cheer, though he wondered how much more the man might hate him were he to know what was transpiring between he and Sansa.

The smile he wore was so brilliant, it had prompted Ser Barristan Selmy to frown in his direction, asking, “Are you quite well Ser Jaime?”

To which he had responded, “Better than I’ve been in years, Lord Commander.”

He might have gone on grinning like an idiot for days, had his sister not summoned him to her chambers one afternoon. All along the endless hallway leading to her rooms, Jaime could feel his good mood ebbing away, until there was nothing left but dread.

The moment he caught sight of his twin however, the man could see that the Queen was herself, filled with distress.

“There has been a raven from the North.” She started without preamble, “Bran Stark is awake.”

Jaime didn’t bother asking how she could have been informed of a message obviously meant for the Starks. Instead, he forced himself to smile disarmingly, though a thrill of horror and guilt passed over him.

“And?” He asked.

“And he could ruin everything.” Cersei spat, pacing to and fro with her arms crossed. Eventually, she stilled and looked down at her hands, an unreadable expression in her eyes. “The boy will never walk again.”

“Do we know if he told of what happened that day?” Jaime asked after a moment, fighting down the urge to be sick. The boy was crippled by his callous hand.

“No...” his sister said hesitantly, pausing in her movements.

A wave of relief coursed through him, mingled with disgust and self-loathing. “Clearly, he didn’t speak of who pushed him, or we’d both already be in the Black Cells. Perhaps it’s best if we never spoke on it again.”

Closing her eyes, Cersei sank down upon her divan. “I suppose you’re right.”

The knight hesitated.

“Will that be all…your Grace?” He asked uncomfortably.

She gave him an odd look. “Yes...though...”

He said nothing.

“Just go.” She sighed in irritation and waved him off. Relieved, Jaime left, though not without feeling a twinge of shame at his own craven behaviour, running away from his sister.

There was a reckoning on its way, but he wasn’t quite ready for it yet.

The rest of the day slid further downhill as he reviewed his roster of duties, only to realize his night was filled with demands on his time.

He would not be patrolling with Sansa, he realized grimly and with trepidation. Instead, judging from the sheet of parchment before him, he’d have the pleasure of watching Sansa being asked to dance by one young courtier after the other. How he was supposed to keep from murdering every drunken oaf who thought to become too free with his hands, Jaime did not know. And after the feast...well after the feast, he would have the honour of guarding Robert, who would no doubt be carousing with his endless stream of whores.

The journey from Winterfell to the Capital has been long, and at times, boring, but suddenly, Jaime found himself missing the simplicity of those days.

With a heavy sigh, the knight gazed out the window.

Of late, a mad idea had overtaken his thoughts - that he would save Sansa the only way that was available for those in their station. While it had served as a fleeting fantasy the first time he had tasted her, the notion was beginning to take on a life of its own as he considered that marriage - specifically, a union with him - might be the key to the Slayer’s salvation. Not only from the fiends that roamed the night, but as well, the less obvious ones that filled the Red Keep.

Already, he wondered how best he could position his request to his father, to exert pressure on the King to release him from his vows

Going about the castle day after day, he spent his time obsessing over the thought of presenting to Ned Stark, his proposal for Sansa’s hand. Likely, the Northman would gut him before he could get a word out...

But if the man knew the gauntlets his daughter was forced to run each and every night, perhaps Ned might yet be persuaded into an understanding that ferrying his daughter West may save her life yet.

Unbidden, he found himself recalling a conversation he had shared with the Slayer as they trudged through the marshes of the trident, after he had asked her how exactly her absence would be explained, if she hurt herself or worse, during one of her nightly patrols.

“It wouldn’t.” she had shrugged carelessly, staring straight ahead with a dead look in her eyes. “I would just be gone. My parents would weep and they will mourn, but they will never know. It is what it is Jaime, don’t dwell on it.”

He remembered the despair he had felt then, as he tried to imagine what it would be like, waking up to find her utterly gone from the world, without a single inkling as to her final fate.

Staring down at the sight of squires sparring against each other in the yard, the memory of that brief conversation hardened his resolve. Jaime could not, and would not allow Sansa to die at the jaws of some nameless, faceless demon.

Jaime would marry Sansa as soon as it was decent to do so. Seven hells, he would risk indecency and ride off towards Casterly Rock immediately, if it meant keeping the Sept and Citadel away from her sooner. He would ensure every last Maester, Septon and Septa was thrown out of Lannisport, on pain of death.

Of course, as ever, there was the question of Bran Stark. Could he live with himself, for the rest of his life, knowing what he’d done, whilst keeping it from Sansa?

Selfishly, Jaime knew the answer to that question, and as much as he hated himself for it...

Grimly, the man reached for a new strip of parchment, and began to write in earnest to his father.

***

The evening sun streamed over the courtyard, decorated in the golds and the reds of Lannister and Baratheon colours. As the people streamed in slowly after spending the day watching the tourneys, Jaime followed behind Robert, watching from the corner of his eye as Sansa followed her Septa to her seat.

When first she had met the royal party, the young woman had sought to mimic his sister’s mannerisms, even going so far as to ape the way Cersei pinned her hair. After the death of Lady however, when she was not dressed for the slaughter of demons, Sansa ceased her blind devotion to the Queen, choosing instead to wear her hair in simple braids, or not bind it at all.

Jaime found that he rather enjoyed the way the soft red curls framed her face.

The blue dress she wore this night brought out the colour of her eyes, which darted warily around her as she studied her fellow Lords and Ladies with a frown.

It was impossible to blame her. Deadly as she was, Sansa had not expected the brutality that was displayed during the jousting between the knights. That much was clear from the way her eyes had widened with shock. However, it was the ensuing excited cheers, the breathless anticipation that followed with every drop of blood spilled, that had bred the increasing look of wary disgust upon her features.

Had he not been forced to remain in his place, he would have gone to her, and taken her from the stands himself. There was a certain disappointment in her eyes as she beheld the spectacle.

Was it borne of the further realization that the golden tales of court life were nothing more than sweet lies? Or was it because the Slayer in her understood that she was being called to defend such cruel creatures, who laughed and cheered at bloodsport?

The irony that the celebrations were being held in honour of her father could not have escaped her.

The only thing she appeared to enjoy at first, was the sight of Thoros of Myr, charging about with a flaming sword. It was not unexpected - the drunken Red Priest tended to find favour with all of the court. What was unexpected, was the way the balding man had paused in his steps and looked right at Sansa in a way that betrayed fear and discomfiture.

The moment passed quickly, and took with it, the Priest from the field, but Jaime could see that whatever had occurred, had returned Sansa to a state of abysmal gloom. As for himself, he released his white knuckled grip on his sword.

That had been hours ago.

“Your daughter has grown to be a comely girl Ned.” Robert said to the Hand, who had walked in step with his friend as they approached the High Table. Behind them, Jory Cassel, whom Jaime had fought almost shoulder to shoulder with during the siege of Pyke followed - and looked through the Kingslayer as if he didn’t even see him. “Not much of her father in her though. And nothing like her aunt.”

Close by, Cersei all but rolled her eyes.

“As you say your Grace.” Ned bowed slightly.

“She’s pretty enough.” Joffrey said offhandedly. “I suppose she’ll do for a Queen.”

“I think Lady Sansa is beautiful.” Tommen declared stoutly, as Myrcella nodded in loyal assent.

In his seat, Eddard shifted uncomfortably.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Robert grunted. “I am unsure that she is suited to the court here, innocent girl that she is.”

The Queen looked sharply at her husband now, eyes flitting between the silent Hand and Robert. “She seems a fine enough young lady and I’m sure she will survive the minor travails of society.”

“Aye. Sansa has taken a liking to the distractions she has found here, that she cannot avail herself to in the North,” Ned cleared his throat.

“All this idle talk. It is time for us to drink and be merry.” Robert said, in a tone that meant the conversation was over, though his sister wore a frown that told all present that it would be picked up again - soon.

His son looked a little confused, his mean little face pinched in consternation…though Jaime did not for one minute, imagine that the boy cared either way whom he married.

Nonetheless, the night progressed, and as it did, true to his expectations, he found his patience sorely tested as he watched courtier after courtier vying for Sansa’s attention. The later the hour, the more freely their hands wandered as well, enough so that even Joffrey took note.

Her younger sister Arya had long since disappeared. The girl had stuffed her face with food, looked around the feast with critical eyes, and ran before the Septa could get her hands on her.

“Uncle, I think its time you saw to my Lady’s delicate sensibilities.” the Prince ordered, his eyes narrowing in annoyance as he glared at a young Lordling, who was attempting to brush Sansa’s hair back. Like his mother, the boy didn’t like it when others touched his toys, whether or not he treasured them.

“I hardly think my daughter is as delicate as you imagine.” Ned said half in jest, half in annoyance, turning to address the statement. His eyes flickered upwards at the Knight of the Kingsguard mistrustfully, though it was clear his regard for the Prince was somehow even lower.

Jaime hid a smile, which unfortunately, both Joffrey and Cersei caught; on the other hand, Ser Barristan looked as constipated as he always did, each time he found himself caught in the middle of an impending family squabble.

“Ser Barristan, make yourself useful and see to it the men stop bothering her.” the Queen said, slurring enough to betray the fact that she had been imbibing more wine than was likely wise. “We can’t have the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms sullied because some foolish Lord can’t resist her _beauty_.”

The way she looked at Jaime, the knight was forced to wonder if she had been spying on him in recent days, though the part of him that was still utterly hers could not conceive of a Cersei who would do that to him.

“Perhaps the Prince could see to his intended’s honour?” The Lord Commander suggested mildly.

“Isn’t that your function, to protect the ladies of the court and do as bid by your Prince?” Joffrey ignored the older man, choosing instead to sneer at his uncle as he leaned back in his chair.

“Lord Commander, by your leave, I will obey his Grace’s wishes.” he said flatly. While he wanted nothing more than to be by Sansa’s side, having to behave as if they hadn’t spent every night of the last few months together chafed at him.

In response, Ser Barristan rubbed at his forehead with a long-suffering expression upon his wrinkled face.

“Ser Jaime, I trust my daughter will be safe in your capable hands.” Ned said unexpectedly, fixing a look of dislike on Joffrey. Amazing, how the boy inspired the honourable Lord Eddard Stark to side with the Kingslayer he so loathed. Nodding curtly, Jaime turned and swept into the fray.

“Ser Ollson.” the knight called to the back of the man currently paying court to Sansa. That is, he was clumsily attempting to tuck a wilted flower behind the Lady’s ear - the Lady of whom, looked as if she was just about ready to start breaking fingers, if the clumsy oaf didn’t desist in his efforts. “I’m certain there are other ladies present at this feast longing for your attention. Unfortunately, I do not see any here.”

To his satisfaction, the young knight took one look upon his thunderous visage, and scampered off like a frightened hare.

“Where are your courtesies Ser?” Sansa asked as she stood to greet him, her lips twitching as she plucked the ugly bloom from her hair. Beside her, Septa Mordane’s head was drooping.

“I’m afraid I lost them sometime around when Lord Hyland attempted to serenade the ‘pale, rose dawn’ that is your lips.” Jaime resisted the urge to growl. “He’s not quite the singer he imagines he is.”

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to escort me somewhere a little quieter. I’m feeling a little faint from the noise and the crowds,” she looked down demurely.

“We would do well to wake your Septa if we are to leave - your father is watching,” he murmured resignedly, though he smiled a little, as he added, “It seems you have told him there are distractions in the Capital that might better hold your attentions more than any in the North can. Perhaps you’d like to linger for that reason?”

Sansa blushed. “Aye. I did tell my father that. And more, besides.”

He could barely keep his heart from pounding. It was done then, he realized. The woman had rejected the Prince’s suit through her father.

“Lady Sansa, not to echo your other admirers but…you do indeed, look exquisitely lovely tonight.” he dropped his voice to a husky timbre, soft enough he knew no one else could overhear.

“You’re far too kind.” once again, she dipped her head modestly. “I have spent many an afternoon on this dress, hoping it would catch the eye of a certain golden haired suitor.”

_By the seven, Tywin Lannister better respond quickly before he did something rash._

Jaime wanted to express exactly how much he liked the dress on her, but how much more he’d rather have it crumpled on the ground beside them, preferably far from the eyes of the entire court. He had to admit that lovely as it was to see her in form fitting leggings and tunics, seeing her in a dress had a charm all its own.

“He’s a very lucky man. You have absolutely no idea.” he said at last, when he was finally able to form words. “Wake your Septa. I will escort you both to your chambers.”

It was a risk, but he couldn’t hold himself back. Sneaking a glance back at the high table, he was relieved to see that the Queen had retreated to her own quarters, while Joffrey was too busy tormenting his siblings to notice anything amiss.

Meanwhile, Sansa had finally roused her groggy and tipsy chaperone, before ushering the older woman to her feet. Curtseying to her Lord Father, she led the way towards the entrance of the castle.

Once out of sight of the masses, Jaime grinned roguishly and grasped Sansa’s elbow, before sweeping her towards a grand tapestry hanging on the wall. Swiftly, he snatched a burning torch close by, before lifting the finely woven fabric and gently pushing the young woman into a dark, narrow corridor.

Being a Kingsguard had its uses, few as those might be, Jaime thought as he led an amused Sansa in his wake. It was his business to know the secret routes, the hidden paths that could be used by an enemy to reach the Iron Throne. By that logic, he was also gifted with the knowledge of where few would ever think to traverse, deep in the bowels of the Red Keep.

“I feel guilty, leaving Septa Mordane the way we did,” she said when they were surrounded by nothing by brick walls, the roar of the feast a distant memory.

“She’ll find her way, I promise.” Jaime finally stilled his steps as he turned and dropped the torch into a rusty sconce set into the wall.

“Where are we?” Sansa asked wonderingly, looking about her.

“This is where servants travelled in the old days, away from the eyes of the Lords and Ladies of the land.” Jaime stalked towards her with intent in his green eyes. “Where handmaidens met their secret lovers, for the sake of keeping their trysts secret.”

“Oh.” Sansa’s eyes grew round even as his strong arms encircled her.

“Indeed. Oh.” he whispered, before crashing his lips against hers.

They had done this many times now, but Jaime had yet to tire their largely innocuous embraces. As always, as her own hands reached up to tangle firmly in his hair, the knight reflected that the Slayer kissed the way she fought: she threw herself into the fray, and took no prisoners along the way.

“I have to see the Maester in a little while…” she murmured as he slid his mouth down the familiar expanse of her neck, while his fingers drifted over the ties of her dress.

“Fuck Pycelle…” he said. “I swear, I will shield you from every last Maester, Septa and Septon if you’d let me.”

“Jaime…” Sansa said very solemnly, forcing him to look at her. “You could take me from them. But I will be the Slayer until the day I die. Do you understand?”

For the first time that night, he took in the shadows under her eyes, the weary crease in her brow.

“Bad dreams?” he asked softly, suddenly feeling ridiculously guilty for not seeing her troubled state.

“The same as ever.” she admitted. “Dead eyes and frozen hands, waiting to drag the living into a frozen hellscape. Of course, some of my dreams have doubtlessly been caused by the news that my brother has awoken…I would that I could be by his side.”

The knight remained silent.

“My place is North Jaime.” her eyes were unseeing now. There was a timbre in her voice that sounded as if she were drifting far, far from him. It was cold, and hard, everything and nothing like the woman he had come to know.

The knight would have withdrawn from her, had Sansa not grabbed the front of his tunic and yanked him towards her, hard enough so he could not resist. For all of a second, the knight shivered in true, unadulterated fear - the Slayer stood before him, deadly and filled with an ancient power he couldn’t begin to guess at.

Sansa would her arms around his neck.

“Did you like my dress?” she asked, her voice a seductive song in his ears.

Slowly, a warm smirk crossed his features as one hand crept behind her body and rested on the small of her back.

Nevermind that she was strong, and lonely, and possibly more terrible than all the kings and queens of the world combined - she was Sansa, whereas he…well…

He was in love with her.

“Shall I prove to you why I like it so?” Jaime asked, as his other hand began to ruck the hem of her skirt up.

“Ser, I am nothing if not at your service,” Sansa breathed, tilting her face up at him. The man could tell that she was a little nervous from the hitch in her breath. Dropping a kiss on her lips, he began to trail kisses down her jawline, as his fingertips stroked the bare skin of her naked thighs.

Gently, they skimmed at the edges of her smallclothes, before trailing under the thin material in teasing brushes, drawing small gasps from her lips.

“At my service are you?” Jaime growled, nipping at her earlobe as his caresses grew more insistent. “Will you accommodate me then?”

His wandering hand prodded gently at the juncture of her legs. Consciously or not, Sansa parted her thighs slightly, allowing his fingertips to drift once again, under the thin material separating him from her damp arousal.

The moment his forefinger brushed against her slick folds, her head tilted back as her eyes slid shut.

“Oh gods Jaime…” she breathed.

Ignoring the growing arousal under his own clothing, the man rubbed insistently at her cleft, watching in fascination as she lost herself under his ministrations. Slowly, he dipped a finger into her warm, tight heat, and watched as she writhed in pleasure against him, panting in unabashed desire.

Thrusting his fingers inside her over and over, his every stroke becoming more insistent, he delighted in the way she moved desperately against him. It was easy enough to ignore his own, throbbing desire, for the sake of watching the woman fall apart under him.

“Please,” she begged. “Don’t stop…”

“Never.” he promised, resting his forehead upon hers as his thumb circled her clit. “Will you come for me?”

“I don’t…” she gasped in incomprehension.

She had no idea what he meant, Jaime grinned happily, before applying just a little more pressure…

Sansa screamed softly into his shoulder as she found her completion for the first time. Carefully, the man tilted her head back, simply because he wanted to look upon her face as she descended from her pinnacles of bliss.

He observed her in curious and tender fascination, aware that in certain ways, he was as inexperienced as Sansa. The only woman he had ever been with was Cersei, and for a long time, he had imagined she would be the only one he’d ever want.

“Don’t you want…” Sansa asked hazily, brushing his hair away from his face.

“Oh but I do want.” he growled, even as he withdrew his hand from under her dress, smoothing the silky material over her hips. “But I’m afraid I have to return to the feast before my absence is noted. I’m afraid I will not be hunting with you tonight either.”

“I’ve been wondering how long it would be, before you had to abandon me for your duties,” she teased in mock reproach as he reluctantly left her side to retrieve the burning torch.

“Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe,” he said as he began to lead them out of the dusty corridor.

“I fully intend to leap into the jaws of death,” she said playfully, prowling like a cat beside him.

“Do not dare make light of this,” he replied quietly, already feeling the heat leaving him, replaced instead with a cold and unrelenting dread. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you lying injured, or worse at the bottom of some gutter…”

Sansa caught his free hand, and squeezed reassuringly. “I swear to you, I will do everything I can to stay alive and safe. I was a Slayer long before you knew me Jaime - I wish sometimes you’d try to remember that.”

Deciding to bite back his words of caution, knowing he’d just be repeating himself, the knight remained silent.

“Every time I think I know the city and the castle, something like this passage takes me by surprise.” Sansa observed.

“Secrets with secrets,” Jaime muttered, thinking of his own unspoken deeds that he hid from Sansa.

“Petyr Baelish told me of Sandor Clegane’s secret history with his brother today as we watched the tourney.” Sansa offered, looking at him sideways, as if unsure why his disposition had soured as it did.

Upon hearing her words, Jaime’s mood only worsened. Indeed, he had seen the way Littlefinger had lingered far too close to her as he whispered. At one point, he was certain he saw the small Lordling brushing up against her thigh through the layers of her clothes; it had almost sent him spiralling into a white hot rage.

The whoremonger had no right touching what did not belong to him.

“There’s not a person alive in Lannisport, who doesn’t know this ‘secret’.” Jaime stated. “And you’d do well to be wary of Lord Baelish. He is not a man to be trusted.”

“Are you the only man I should ever trust then?” Sansa asked, tilting her head to the side. “It certainly seems you despise any man who comes within a foot of me.”

“Only when they think to be too free with their hands.” Jaime said succinctly. “And Littlefinger certainly looked interested in more than just court gossip today.”

“I’d wager you’re right.” Sansa laughed.

They weren’t far now from a main hallway. Past yet another heavy tapestry, they could hear the voices of all who passed outside.

“Jaime…I will miss you.” she whispered, reaching to kiss him on his cheek. “I will see you on the morrow. I promise.”

“Good…” he hesitated. “Sansa…I too, have asked my father to speak with the King. I mean to be released from my oath…and I mean to ask for your hand.”

The look of shock that passed over her face looked almost comical.

“Say something.” he was suddenly unsure.

“I…” she started, although he could see the hope sparking to life in her lovely eyes. “Jaime, you know I can’t…you know that my kind, we don’t…”

“I do know. But I also know that this city will live on without you. I intend to take you to Casterly Rock, far away from this hellhole.” he whispered urgently. “I won’t see you give your life away for this cesspool of a place.”

“Who will protect the helpless?” she asked, though there was a longing in her voice that gave him his answer.

“I don’t care.” he said very honestly. “I have done enough to save those who dwell here, and so have you.”

Tremulously, she reached out and touched his cheek, before closing the distance between them.

“In that case…I hope your father answers soon.” she said, causing his heart to soar in his chest.

“Aye.” he nodded fervently. “We are one in that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah? continue? let this dream die?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finally meets a foe she can't dust. Joffrey pays a visit.
> 
> Sansa and Bran have a chat.
> 
> There is nudity.

The smile refused to leave her lips, even as Septa Mordane droned ceaselessly in her ear, reprimanding her yet again of how she had failed in her duties when she abandoned the older woman in the busy walkways of the Red Keep.

Pointedly ignoring the woman, Sansa fastened the last of her weaponry to her person, some hidden, some not. Jaime wouldn’t like it, but since her first trip to the armoury, Sansa had managed to pilfer for herself, more dangerous tools. Such as - the crossbow strapped to her back.

“Are you listening to a word I’ve said?” the Septa demanded. “You can’t keep going about with Ser Jaime the way you do. You’re courting trouble. A Slayer stands alone.”

“Yet you won’t leave my side.” Sansa commented drily, ignoring the hurt look in the holy woman’s eyes.

“I have to do my duty.” Septa Mordane said, and there was misery in her eyes as she uttered those words.

“Have you put Arya to bed?” Sansa asked, turning to leave the room. The two Stark daughters had separate, albeit adjoining chambers within the Tower of the Hand. “I haven’t seen her since she ran off. I imagine she’s off practicing her water dancing.”

“I only just saw her balancing on one foot in her room.” the older woman sighed. “I don’t approve of her little hobby. It’s unbecoming for a lady to be so interested in swordplay.”

Giving the Septa a withering look, Sansa departed, stealing towards the Maester’s quarters as subtly as she could manage. The Slayer made a mental note that it was time she discovered the hidden passages within the castle which Jaime had so sweetly introduced her to. The memory of their interlude returned to the woman her good mood.

Gods knew that she…well. She loved him. She was in love with him, and there were no two ways about it. The more she came to know him, the more she realized that the two of them made an unlikely, yet highly suited pair.

Jaime Lannister had only ever wanted to be a golden, noble knight, and she, a damsel in a song, waiting to be rescued. Both their dreams had come to naught, with a speed that near destroyed them…though, in very different ways.

The thought of becoming his lady wife made her blush in a way the notion of marrying Joffrey never did. Of course, there was the question of her father…

Already, Sansa knew that the only way for Lord Stark to accept the Kingslayer’s suit, was in telling the man the truth of her calling. Much as she had wanted to save him from the knowledge that she was the Slayer, Ned would likely dismiss any suit from the Lannisters.

Rounding a corner, Sansa stepped back hastily the moment she caught sight of Pycelle huddled under his own doorway, conversing urgently with Petyr Baelish. Even her sharp hearing only heard the faintest traces of their discussion, though they raised the heckles on her neck, causing her to forget all else.

“…Ned Stark has been asking…” she heard. “…particularly about Jon Arryn’s..”

 _Secrets with secrets,_ Jaime had told her.

In the days since she had arrived in the capital, Sansa had already availed herself to the charms of the sewers, pursuing fleeing demons and desperate vampires. The Slayer however, had yet to feel as dirty as she always did in the presence of Pycelle.

Unlike Luwin, the Grand Maester did not have the benefit of having practically raised Sansa since she was little more than a babe. Courteous though he seemed, especially in the presence of the Jaime, the Slayer had yet to forget how the man had eyed her the night they met, like she was nothing more than a tasty morsel with which he wanted to sate his obscene appetites with.

True, he hadn’t laid so much as a wrinkled finger on her person...not that he would have come away from such an encounter uninjured. Sacred duties or not, were he to impugne on her honour, Sansa wouldn’t kill him, but she would certainly make him pay. Dearly.

Still. 

Each time she came away from speaking with the old man, Sansa wondered how he had treated with any lowborn Slayers that came before her. Girls who had not the benefit of being protected by a great family name, the affections of dangerous, high-born knights, and who might never have enjoyed a full meal in their lives.

The conclusions she reached usually caused her lips to curl in disgust. Pycelle had probably treated his past Slayers as if they were his personal whores.

To hear him clearly conspiring with Baelish, specifically with regards to her father, did nothing to improve his standing in her eyes.

“…good of you to express your concerns.” Baelish replied in his rasping voice, before he swept away in the opposite direction from the Slayer. “I will not betray your confidences.”

Her erstwhile suitor had been right, Sansa decided grimly. Littlefinger could not be trusted.

Counting to twenty, Sansa finally resumed her journey towards the Grand Maester’s quarters.

***

The gardens of the city’s wealthiest were lovely, the Slayer thought as she ducked away from blows meant to take her head off her shoulders.

Sweeping her legs out from a crouched position, Sansa caught her opponent by surprise, sending him sprawling on his back.

 _How hard would it be, to get an invitation to visit such a garden,_ she wondered as she drew her crossbow and leapt to her feet. Without missing a beat, she loosed a bolt and watched in satisfaction as the creature exploded into fine dust.

The idiot had ripped her cloak, which she had painstakingly mended the day before. The other women had stared curiously at the old thing she so carefully tended to, but she had explained it away as something she’d owned far too long to simply discard.

There had been uncomprehending laughs at that; Cersei had given her a familiar smile, one she used to find so refined, lovely, and gracious.

These days, Sansa was acutely aware that the Queen continued to regard her as nothing more than an empty-headed, witless child. Which suited the Slayer just fine. It wouldn’t do for Jaime’s sister to become aware of too much.

Retrieving the crossbow bolt that had clattered uselessly onto wet grass, Sansa wiped it off on her clothing and replaced it in her quiver, before slinging her weapon across her back once again. As she trudged through the damp grass, ready to re-commence her hunt through the lush grounds belonging to the city’s best merchants, her mind turned once again to the conversation she had accidentally overheard.

What was her father looking for, that had Pycelle so worried, she wondered. When she had entered his chambers, the Grand Maester looked a little more anxious than usual, staring at her as if she might bite.

Deviously, she had smiled brightly at him, showing off all her teeth as she did so. Perhaps the old man would yet learn how sharp her teeth were.

The part of her that wasn’t wholly a girl, but something far darker, far more murderous...that part wanted to see Pycelle squirm, and mewl, and bleat for her mercy. 

But she was still Sansa Stark, and Sansa Stark contemplated telling her father of all she had heard. But if she did, then she would have to explain what she was doing, skulking about the castle alone, eavesdropping on the discreet conversations of others.

No, she thought resignedly as she effortlessly jumped over a low wall, landing noiselessly on the cobbled pavement. She could not speak of it to her father just yet.

As the Slayer straightened her body, someone stepped out into a patch of moonlight close by, causing her to rear back instinctively. In her right hand, Sansa already gripped a stake as she poised herself to make a quick strike.

“Slayer,” the stranger said, raising his hands placatingly.

His eyes were so very dark, Sansa thought immediately as she took in his pale countenance.

“Vampire.” she said coolly, recognizing him for what he was immediately, from the slight prickle she could feel crawling across her skin. Unpleasantly, the sensation always reminded her of spiders. There was no smell of grave dirt or crypt dust about his person however, and the scent of blood seemed largely absent.

“Very good.” he grinned. It was a sweet smile, she observed dispassionately. “I’ve been hearing tales of your exploits throughout the city, and to be honest, I expected someone…bigger.”

“Bigger?” she barked disbelievingly.

“Indeed. But I watched the way you moved tonight, how you dispatched your foes as quickly as you did…” he looked genuinely admiring as he tucked his hands behind his back, before strolling towards her very slowly.

His face, she realized dispassionately, was beautiful. High cheekbones and a sharp aristocratic nose, combined with his fair skin, lent him an almost otherworldly air. It was unfair that such loveliness was no more than the thin mask of a demon.

“My Lady, you move like a dream. A deadly, beautiful dream.”

Something about the way he moved reminded Sansa of a great cat playing with its prey…and of Jaime. Disgusted at herself for making such a comparison, the Slayer moved to strike, but found herself stilled in the iron grip of the vampire before her.

“I came to talk. Not to fight.” he stated calmly, not releasing his hold on her.

“Seven hells, and they say I chat too much.” Sansa huffed, and lashed out with her free hand, striking him hard across his ribcage. Hissing, the vampire crumpled. At the same time however, he tightened his grip on her forearm, causing the woman to drop her stake even as the bones in her arm shattered.

“What is it with you Slayers, thinking first with your fists and second with your head?” he asked, releasing Sansa as she bit back a cry of agony.

Forcing herself not to acknowledge the pain, knowing that her injury would heal quickly - if she made it out of this alive - Sansa let her right arm fall to the side as her left hand found the grip of her dagger. The vampire moved faster than the eye could see, and positioned himself behind her, latching firmly and meaningfully onto her left wrist with iron resolve.

“Sansa Stark, I came to talk.” he said again in a low, deadly voice. “Let us not do this. I could kill you where you stand, and simply wait for the next Slayer to come through these streets.”

Understanding that she did not have much in way of options, she nodded slightly.

“You have had better tutors, I think, than the last. The Slayers rely too much on their strength and not enough on their skill,” the vampire said after a moment as he released his hold on her, allowing her to turn to face him. “Then again, most of them did not have the Kingslayer guiding them in matters of combat. Amongst other things.”

“I suppose you would know.” Sansa said bitterly.

“I would indeed.” he said agreeably. “I have been protecting this city for years before you came along.”

“Protecting…” the Slayer was aghast at the nerve of the demon standing before her. “You’re nothing but a parasite feeding on the lifeblood of the living.”

“How is that any different from those who reside on the hill, where every night you yourself retire?” he replied coolly, unfazed by her ire. “If it isn’t Robert taxing the people to death to feed his gluttony, it’s the Mad King, raining down terror as and when he chose, upon whomever he pleased. And before that, one monarch after the other, pillaging and raping from his own people.”

Staring at the figure before her, Sansa hated that she could not find the words to disagree with him.

Hours earlier, when she looked upon the greedy faces of her fellow lords and ladies at the tourney, she had watched as they all took palpable joy in every drop of blood spilled. When the crowd had gasped in excitement as a squire had been brutally murdered before their eyes, she felt her stomach turning.

Rubbing gingerly at her hurting right arm, Sansa reminded herself again that she was conversing with a vampire. The part of her that was the Slayer continued to recoil in abject disgust, which she knew showed plainly on her face.

“I can see we will not get much further tonight.” he sighed, running a bone white hand through his jet black hair. “Lady Sansa, I heard you that first night you walked the streets of the city, among the whores and drunkards. You said plainly that you consider everyone within its walls, yours to protect. No other Slayer has ever truly conveyed that - hard to blame them, when the Maesters clothed and fed them. But you…you are different.”

“You killed them didn’t you?” Sansa asked plainly, forcing herself not to react to the knowledge that this creature had been watching her without her even knowing.

“Some of them.” he nodded. “Others died by their own carelessness. I see the latter in you.”

“I’m honoured by your regard. No, wait, you’re a filthy demon, so maybe not.” she braced herself for an attack, knowing in her soul that if he did, she was done. Finished.

Instead, the vampire smiled patiently. “The name is Tomas. We will speak again Lady Sansa.”

He moved with nightmarish speed, disappearing into the alleys and walkways of the city as if he had never been. The throbbing in her right arm reminded her however, that she had indeed, encountered something far more dangerous than ever she had faced.

Turning towards the Red Keep, Sansa fled. For the first time since she had been called, she understood what it meant to be frightened for her very life.

***

Jaime answered her knocks immediately, despite the fact that they were an hour away from dawn.

“Sansa, what…” he looked at her blearily before she stumbled into his arms. Fear and wariness had hidden the agonizing pain from her conscious mind as she spoke with Tomas, and as she ran for her life. As the minutes flowed past however, the truth of her injuries began very quickly to present itself.

“Seven hells Slayer,” Jaime looked furious and scared all at once as he caught her. Lifting Sansa into his arms, the knight kicked the door shut and strode to his bed, before depositing her carefully onto the feather stuffed mattress.

“I’ll get Pycelle.” He started, assessing her injuries.

“Don’t.” She protested with enough ferocity that it gave him pause. “I saw him and Baelish, and overheard...”

“Fine, fine…” He shook his head.

“I’ve never met a vampire like the one I encountered tonight.” Sansa confessed, even as he ripped her sleeve apart. “He’s old, I think. And strong, very strong. He knew who I was.”

“Every vampire in this city knows who you are.” Jaime said almost distractedly as he hurried towards the shelves beside his bed. The man was barely dressed - forgiveable, considering how she had barged in upon his sleeping quarters.

“He _knows_ who I am.” the woman emphasized, forcing herself to sit up by bracing on her left arm. “He knows who _you_ are.”

Not even pausing, though the frown in his forehead betrayed his alarm, Jaime returned to her side, and splinted her arm with an efficacy borne of one who was used to battle wounds.

“What happened?” he asked at last, turning his emerald eyes to her in consternation when her right arm was fully bound.

“He found me and told me he wanted to speak. He told me I was different from the rest.” Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut though she fought against it. Even in her muddled state, she did not miss the look of worry on the knight’s face. “He said he only wanted to talk.”

“By the old Gods and the new…” he held her good hand tightly. “I swear I will kill him. Do you hear me?”

“Nay my love…” she fell into blessed unconsciousness. “Not before I put an end to him.”

***

Sansa dreamed.

Like a ghost, she wandered through the halls and secret passageways of the Red Keep, as others walked by her without noticing that they were being watched.

Beside her, Lady’s shade guarded her steps, padding silently on her translucent paws. Something throbbed painfully in Sansa’s heart as she beheld her beloved wolf.

The Keep was a castle as she had never seen it, with red and black banners hanging everywhere, bearing the ominous sigil of a three headed dragon. Her heart in her throat, she entered the throne room, and watched in horror as Jaime stood over a shivering, decimated form.

In her lessons, they had told her that King Aerys had stopped bathing, stopped caring for himself. That his hands were covered in scabs and lesions. No one had told her that in the end, he was nothing more than skin stretched over bones, his eyes filled with insanity and shining hatred.

Looking to the knight who stood over the Mad King, resplendent in his white cloak and golden armour, she watched as something terrible played across his handsome features. There was rage - yes - but there was also grief.

“Jaime…” she called out, trying to force her way to his side. She didn’t care to stop the death of the Aerys. That was not her prerogative in that moment. She could still save Jaime, still stop him from ripping a hole in his own soul…

The man she loved didn’t hear her voice. Instead, he raised his sword one final time as she moved forwards…

…into a bright courtyard she had never seen in her life, though the woman who stood a few feet away - she would know her anywhere.

“Mother?” Sansa asked in confusion.

No, not her mother. Not yet anyway.

They could have been sisters, Sansa thought, watching as a youthful Catelyn gently teased a small, skinny boy. Young Petyr looked upon the Tully daughter as if she were a goddess.

“I have asked your father again for your hand.” she heard him say.

“Oh Petyr…” Catelyn’s face fell, turning away. “You know he will never agree to it.”

Sansa walked…

…in the hallways an old and ruined castle. Outside the un-shuttered windows, the Slayer was greeted by the sight of tumbling spires reaching towards the sky like broken fingers.

Lady’s ghost growled long and low. Turning, Sansa observed with disgust, at those who had made a nest for themselves in the ruin that was Moat Cailin.

The vampires were feasting, it seemed, on both the blood and screams of those they had abducted. All of them wore the various colours of the Northern houses - soldiers who had been turned, she realized. Reaching for the stake in her belt, the Slayer ran forwards…

… towards the Broken Tower. It had stood there her entire life like a silent sentinel over Winterfell. There was a sharp cry, as Bran fell from the sky and landed with a sickening thud before her. He was so small, and so helpless, she thought.

“I should have saved you,” she said aloud in despair as hot tears welled in her eyes. Summer, still a pup, sniffed about her brother’s unconscious body, before looking to stare mournfully at herself and Lady.

Startled, Sansa took a step backwards. Turning her gaze upwards, she saw a flash of gold. Blinking, she squinted and…

…stared up at the roots of a massive Weirwood tree. Long, knotted tendrils ran under her feet and throughout the dark, cold soil, but she cared nothing for them, fixated as she was upon the seated figure in front of her.

“If you do not find a way, no one else will.”

The part of the Slayer that wasn’t truly human knew that the roots all around her extended throughout the Seven Kingdoms, under the seas, and indeed, crawled across the entire world. The part of the Slayer that was still Sansa wanted to weep at the sight of Bran, trapped and alone as he was in the darkness beneath the world.

“I am one girl.” she told her brother, who was older, much older than when she left him in Winterfell. “I cannot shoulder this weight by myself forever.”

Bran’s eyes turned white as the cave melted away.

She stood with him on a grassy plain, under an unforgiving sun; thousands of soldiers in foreign armour surrounded her, but none saw that they had been joined by two strangers. Shielding her eyes in the bright light, the Slayer looked up in the sky, staring in horror as a creature of eldritch nightmare bore down upon the heavily armed host.

It was the Night King of her dreams atop a white dragon. The beast, she could see, bore a deep, black wound across its wide gut. Gigantic blue eyes gazed coldly down upon the field, and all who stood on it.

“Watch and understand that this might still be stopped.” Bran whispered.

Opening its mouth, the dead dragon breathed.

Sansa screamed as her flesh burned. Beside her, Lady howled...

***

The Slayer opened her eyes as a reedy shriek emerged past her lips, only to find strong, familiar arms wrapping themselves protectively around her.

“You’re safe,” Jaime murmured soothingly. “You’re with me. You’re safe, I promise.”

Blinking stupidly, she tried to orient herself. The room was unfamiliar, and almost monastic in its simplicity. Brilliant hues of the setting sun illuminated the space.

“I was beginning to fear you would never wake. I could not rouse you from your dreams.”

Looking to the knight, Sansa could see that she had added years to his handsome countenance.

“I can’t leave you even for a night can I?” he said raggedly.

“I had it all under control.” she heard herself say in a parched voice.

Laughing roughly, he kissed her forehead and left the bed, reaching for a pitcher on a close-by stand.

“How long have I been here?” she asked, noting that she was still dressed in her slaying garb.

The knight passed her a tumbler filled with chilled honeyed milk. Grabbing greedily at it, the Slayer drained the cup in no time at all.

“You’ve been here all day. I made my own excuses for the sake of watching over you and…” he sat back down and touched her panicked brow. “…your Septa has kept your father and all others at bay. As far as everyone is concerned, you are currently having some…shall I say, womanly concerns at this time, and you’ve kindly asked not to be disturbed for a full two days.”

Sansa tried to imagine Jaime and her Septa contriving a fiction related to her monthly flux, and almost found herself wanted to laugh aloud.

“My arm,” she said, putting away the empty cup. The pain she had felt the night before had largely left her. “He shattered my arm.”

“Whomever he was, he did indeed.” Jaime looked haggard as he brushed the hair from her forehead. “Slayer…how am I to leave you slaying alone at night, if the first thing you do is get yourself so injured?”

“He said his name was Tomas.” Sansa remembered. “I’m not the first Slayer he’s encountered. He told me he’s been protecting the city for a long time now…”

“Protecting the city?” Jaime scoffed the way she did.

“Apparently we are the true parasites.” She remarked drily. “I should have been more careful. I not have let my arrogance guide me.”

“I see you raided the armoury.” He commented, gesturing to the various weaponry strewn all over the floor. “I’ll have you know, you had a number of us chastised quite soundly for your thefts. I really should have you hauled up before the Lord Commander for your crimes."

Sansa had the grace to look embarrassed.

“You are surely the most frustrating woman.” Jaime looked exasperated and affectionate all at once. She raised her right hand to touch him, marveling at how the excruciating pain had left her, though the mending bones still ached very slightly under her flesh.

“Careful,” Jaime cautioned, moving her arm down. “We don’t want that to set badly.”

“I can feel my bones already knitting back together. Slayer healing has its uses.” She assured him, though she could see her words held no comfort for him.

“I’ve dreamed of having you in my bed.” Jaime looked away. “Not like this. Never like this.”

“Well I’m here aren’t I?” She coaxed gently, reaching to tilt his chin towards her. “Jaime...”

He leaned over and kissed her, cradling her body as if she were something precious.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, though she could tell he was holding himself back.

“When do you think would be the right time? Someday, I might not return at all.” Sansa said, unable to mask her sadness. “There will never be a magical time when all of this will leave us, and we could live our lives like other people…”

She was silenced with a hard, desperate kiss. Carding his fingers through her unbound hair, with his free hand, Jaime began to undo the ties of her clothing.

“I refuse to accept that I will lose you yet, to some nameless, pitiless demon.” he stated as he planted kisses across her collarbone. “I won’t let it come to that.”

 _You can’t fight fate_ , Sansa wanted to tell him, but she could see from the look in Jaime’s eyes that her warning would only fall to deaf ears.

It was wrong, she knew, to think of Harlon as Jaime undressed her. But at the same time, Harlon had been her first lover, the one who took her maidenhead. The boy had treated her as if she were a delicate, breakable doll, had been practically reverential in the way he uncovered her body. There had been no doubt that she had enjoyed his attentions, or she wouldn’t have allowed it to happen.

Jaime touched her as if she were the only woman he could ever want ever again. Using his lips and his hands, he mapped every square inch of her body, resuming the dance of desire they had started somewhere between Winterfell and the Capital. While she knew he would never harm her person, he did not act as if she were made of porcelain, and oddly enough, she felt _grateful_ for it.

Thought began to leave her as he raised his lips from her breasts, kissing her once again with enough passion to take her breath away. Against her most secret places, already laid bare by his hands, Sansa could feel his cock rubbing urgently against her cleft. Carefully, he rolled their bodies so she sat atop him, allowing her both to guard her wounded arm, and to do as she pleased with him.

Slowly, she sank down upon his hard length, taking him completely inside her. Moaning as he filled her, Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Sansa,” he murmured, thrusting into her as wide hands gripped at her hips. “Gods, you feel sweet…”

“I never want this to stop,” she breathed, arching her back. She had never assumed the position of being atop a lover. Certainly, the way his cock stroked at her insides felt far different from anything she had ever experienced, and it was enough for her to lose herself completely in short order.

“Well, if you’re going to make it that easy…” Jaime teased as she finally deigned to look down upon him, through pleasure hazed eyes.

“You’ll do what?” she asked, experimentally flexing her hips. Watching his mouth fall open and his head burrowing backwards into his pillow, she felt extremely rewarded…and powerful. Still a little unsure of herself, she began to set to rhythm of her bodies, moving until Jaime growled in frustration. The man thrust with everything inside of him, causing her to writhe atop him in mind numbing bliss.

When it seemed he could take no more, he lifted her bodily from himself and settled her beside him. Turning on his side, he dropped his left hand between her legs and applied his fingers skillfully against her slit once again. With his free hand, he would have reached down to bring himself to completion, had Sansa not beaten him to it.

Touching each other, they came as one, their names on each others lips as they did so.

Exhausted, Sansa leaned into his shoulder and lay unmoving for a few seconds. Slowly coming back down to the world, she met Jaime’s own sated gaze as his hand reached up and stroked her cheek.

“Am I supposed to sleep alone in this bed from now on?” he asked softly.

“I wish it weren’t so.” she sighed even as she nuzzled into his touch. “Jaime, I have to tell you…when the demon had me in its grasp, and I thought I wouldn’t live to see you again…”

His eyes turned flinty at the reminder.

“I regretted not telling you sooner, that I love you.” she said, meeting his gaze. The words came easily to her, and she found that she wasn’t afraid of his answer, whatever it might be. The night before had brought an unwelcome reminder of how fragile her existence was, and how the next fight could be her last.

“Good.” he said with a small, relieved smile. “I’m glad I won’t be making a fool of myself then, when I say to you that I love you from the bottom of my sullied soul.”

“I should be leaving soon.” She said reluctantly.

“Stay awhile.” He pulled her close. “Besides, it’s early enough the castle is still crawling with people.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she yawned.

“Sansa...there are things you should know.” He said quietly after a moment, threading his fingers through her hair. “On the chance that my plans succeed, and we persuade your father that our marriage is not in fact, the end of the world as we know it...”

“Are you going to tell me how much time you spend in front of the glass making sure your hair looks just right?”

“I’m serious.” Jaime propped himself up on an elbow. “And what I’m about to say can never leave this room.”

The Slayer was wide awake now. Pulling a sheet to hide away her nakedness, Sansa sat up and faced the knight, her back against the headboard.

“You know of myself and the Queen.” He paused as if he was trying to find the words. “Have you wondered, that the children all favour the Lannister features?”

Her eyes widened as she immediately understood the implications.

“They’re...”

Jaime nodded almost miserably as his gaze fell away.

Speechless, she stared at her lover as half a hundred thoughts raced through her head. On one hand, she realized that all three royal children were bastards, and for Jaime and Cersei to pass them off as royal heirs, was nothing short of high treason.

On the other hand - Robert was not a good man, or even a decent one. Of that, she was certain. The thought of bearing that man’s children was even more revolting than the thought of the twin’s incestuous affair.

If Sansa were married the King, no doubt, she would herself have chosen to bed down with Robb. She would rather have birthed her own brother’s children, than bear the offspring of a drunkard who beat her, and who spent his nights fucking every last whore he could lay his filthy hands on. As much as she despised Cersei for her part in Lady’s death, Sansa could not help but see the Queen’s plight for the tragedy it was.

Looking at Jaime’s downcast and hopeless profile as he awaited her judgement, Sansa found it strangely comforting to know that the man trusted her enough to share his own secrets.

“Would you like to explain why Joff is such a little shit?” Sansa finally asked, for want of anything else to say.

Startled green eyes met her blue ones.

“They’re my seed but they’re Robert’s children. In _every_ way.” He said. “Believe me when I tell you, this was not the life I had envisioned living.”

It made sense. Given what she had come to know of Jaime, she couldn’t imagine that Joffrey had inherited his hateful ways from his actual father.

“The other two seem sweet enough,” She offered, relaxing her pose. Encouraged, Jaime shifted so he sat beside her.

“They’re wonderful.” He agreed.

“You love them don’t you?” She asked, tentatively reaching to touch his hand.

“I would do anything to protect them.” Jaime sighed. “Even the little shit who is due to sit on the Iron Throne someday.”

“Seven hells. You do know Joffrey and I have shared a few kisses.” Sansa turned a little green at the memory.

“Let’s just...pretend none of that ever happened shall we?” Jaime grimaced.

Resisting the urge to gag, Sansa buried her face in the knights shoulder and breathed in the scent that was all him.

“Your secrets are mine to keep,” She told him softly, as he dropped a kiss in her hair.

 _For however long I have to live,_ she added silently.

***

By the time Sansa made it back to the Tower of the Hand, the ache in her injured arm had faded to a distant thrum. Successfully sneaking past several guards and maids about their late night business, she was just about to reach her door when someone coughed delicately behind her.

“Taking a late night walk, Lady Sansa?” the bald man asked, smiling benignly at her.

“Yes. I had trouble sleeping.” she said automatically, realizing she had no excuse for her ripped sleeve, or the fact that she looked a little worse for wear. Thankfully, she had left most of her weapons with Jaime, realizing it would only raise more questions if she had been caught.

Exactly as she was being caught now.

“I see. From the injury in your arm, no doubt.” Lord Varys approached, solicitously staring at the bindings Jaime had applied. “I had heard of course, that you were unwell. I should have realized things weren’t quite that simple.”

“It’s a mere scratch.” Sansa dipped her head uncomfortably.

“My Lady, I understand you broke your troth to Prince Joffrey.” he affected a frown. “His Grace is most devastated by your decision.”

“Oh.” In the events of the last two days, Sansa had almost forgotten about the whole mess with Joffrey. “I’m sorry I have caused him grief. However, I’m sure his Grace will find a more suitable wife.”

“Ah but he’s a _special_ kind of boy.” Varys said amiably, though the Slayer could hear the unspoken warning in his voice. “I don’t know of course, if you broke your troth for the sake of another, and to spare the Prince heartache at a later time. If you did, it would surely distress him when he finds out.”

“Undoubtedly.” Sansa said drily, suddenly sick of trying to understand what the Master of Whisperers was trying to say or not say. Moreover, she wasn’t exactly sure, but it felt as if the man was threatening her. “Will he find out do you think?”

The Slayer positioned her body such a way that discomfited most of her foes. Varys merely laughed.

“Not from me.” he sounded almost…appreciative. “However, I’m sure you understand by now, that whatever has caused such a change of heart, might serve as useful information to others who are close to you. Some of them, their loyalties belong to the crown, rather than the good fight. The good fight you alone wage, I might add. These individuals would, beyond a doubt, betray your secrets if they thought it would raise their standing in the eyes of the Queen.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sansa’s eyes narrowed.

“Because you are young, and you have already lost much of what freedom you once had. The Citadel and Sept have all but branded you as their slave.” Varys said, dropping all pretence of courtesy. “And I happen to take issue with young girls being treated as such in the Seven Kingdoms. Moreover…I happen to like Ser Jaime, no matter what others may think.”

Staring at each other in silence for a few seconds, the Master of Whisperers finally began to smile again, in that false, saccharine manner she found so grating.

“I understand his Grace the Prince intends to pay you a visit on the morrow.” he bowed and began to walk away. “I’m sure you will have much to discuss.”

Frowning, the Slayer watched him disappear.

There were too many eyes in King’s Landing, she thought, as a familiar taste of bile filled the back of her throat. What a fool her younger self had been, dreaming of life in the capital. It was nothing more than a den of vipers, all waiting to strike at the first opportunity they received.

Out of everything that angered her however, the thing that irritated her most, was the fact that she had allowed herself to be spied upon by not one, but two different observers. While it was terrible to think upon, perhaps she ought to leave Jaime behind in the keep after all, when she emerged for the hunt every night.

Entering her own chambers and closing the door firmly behind her, Sansa shook her head, thinking of the Prince’s loud protests to come.

 

***

The morning was spent breaking her fast with her Septa. Deciding at last that while the woman might be sanctimonious and far too self-righteous for her own good, it was impossible to think that she might look to betray the Stark family.

Slayer though she was - Sansa was still a Stark.

“I need you to listen to me. And I mean listen.” she said, setting her fork down. Septa Mordane looked up at her in surprise.

“Pycelle is not to be trusted.” the Slayer said firmly.

“He is your…” the other woman started.

“He has been conspiring against my father.” the younger woman said coolly. “I would not have made such an accusation, if I didn’t catch him myself last night.”

For once, the holy woman had nothing to say.

“Guard your tongue around him, and do not speak of anything discussed amongst ourselves.”

In that moment, she spoke as Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Her tone brooked no argument, and she would have accepted none.

“As you say my Lady.” the Septa said at last.

It was at that moment when Arya chose to skip into the room. As usual, she had foregone a dress for a tunic and loose breeches.

“Sister, you look happy.” Sansa relaxed, picking up her silverware again. “Another day fighting with Master Syrio?”

“He’s got me catching cats.” Arya said as she grabbed herself a piece of toast. “I’m finding corners and places you wouldn’t believe existed in this place. I think I found a tunnel leading out of the castle…”

Slayer and Septa cast each other looks of worry, both thinking the exact same thing: vampires. While they couldn’t get into the castle without an invitation, they could certainly avail themselves to any of its residents the moment the stepped out of the boundaries of the palace. Unlike the tales of old, the fiends did not in fact, necessarily sleep during the day. As long as they remained hidden from direct sunlight, they remained unharmed.

“I’m sure there are plenty of cats within the castle grounds,” Septa Mordane started, before she sniffed. “Though I don’t exactly see the point in catching a cat.”

“That’s because _you’ve_ never tried to catch something that doesn’t want to be caught, and which owns sharp teeth and claws.” Sansa rolled her eyes. “But Septa Mordane is right Arya. Stay inside the castle won’t you? It’s not safe outside.”

“How would you know?” Arya asked in annoyance. “You just stay in here all day sewing, and when you do venture out, you’re always going with a full retinue of guards and other ladies.”

Sucking in an exasperated breathe, Sansa counted to ten.

“Arya, imagine if someone found out you were the daughter of the Hand. Now think how a bad person could use that against Father.” she suggested, before taking a bite out of a sausage.

“I won’t tell people I’m Arya Stark…” the girl began to look less convinced.

“Have you looked in a glass lately?” Sansa suggested gently. “You’re mirror to our Lord Father.”

Judging from the sulky silence that ensued, the eldest Stark girl was satisfied that her point had been made. For whatever reason, her Septa was giving her a look that resembled something like pride.

“Have fun with your needlework today.” Arya crammed the last of her food into her mouth and dashed away.

“You have so much of your Lady Mother in you.” the holy woman sighed as she leaned back in her seat, looking very old and very tired. Sansa refused to feel sorry for the woman she regarded as her gaoler.

There was a knock on their door, followed by the announcement that they were about to be joined by the Crown Prince.

“Ah yes. Your besotted suitor.” Septa Mordane sighed again, unaware still, that the troth between Sansa and Joffrey had been broken. “I shall make myself scarce. I can’t stand the boy.”

The Slayer was not looking forwards to the hour when she had to inform the Holy Woman that she was once again, actively seeking to thwart the will of the Sept and the Citadel by refusing to marry King Robert’s son. By the Seven, the lecture she would receive from her Septa would surely blister Sansa’s ears.

As soon as the boy entered her chambers, Sansa couldn’t help but stare at his features in wonder. How could she have missed the fact that Joffrey wore the face of the man she loved, albeit, a much younger version of it?

She supposed it had been easy to overlook. After all, she herself heavily favoured her mother’s side of the family, and it was entirely possible that Cersei’s bloodline was simply stronger than Robert’s.

The Prince was wearing his sweetest smile that morning, that gave him an almost innocent appearance. Green eyes sparkled as they fell upon her, and if Sansa didn’t know better, she would have thought him the epitome of goodness and chivalry.

“Your Grace,” she curtsied, bowing her head so she didn’t have to look at him.

“Lady Sansa,” Joffrey took her hand gently and dropped a kiss on her knuckles. Her right arm was still bound, though the pain was now only a bad memory. As her sleeve fell to her elbow, the bandages came into view. “Sweet Sansa, I heard you had been ill, but I didn’t realize…”

“It’s nothing.” Sansa withdrew her hand, pretending that it was so she could hide her injury from sight, when really, she found herself repulsed by his touch. “The truth was that I had tripped over my skirts after the feast the other night, and scratched my arm. I didn’t want others to know how clumsy I was, or to see the ugliness of the wound…hence, I remained in here, hiding like a craven, hideous hag.”

“You needn’t have worried. You are every bit as beautiful as ever I have seen you,” Joffrey said expansively.

Smiling thinly, Sansa wondered how long this audience would stretch on for.

“You’re far too kind your Grace.” she murmured.

“I came today to speak with you on the matter of our betrothal.” he started.

“Oh?” she tried to look surprised.

“Lady Sansa, I know we had a…difficult…journey from Winterfell.” he continued. “I realize now that I behaved like a churlish brute towards yourself and the Lady Arya. I wish I could take it all back…”

Biting her lip, the woman tried her best not to remind Joffrey that he had called Arya a cunt, threatened her sister with his sword, and caused the death of both Mycah, the butcher’s boy, and Lady, her beloved direwolf.

“I am here to beg for your forgiveness, and to humbly ask that you reconsider our troth. I swear, I will never behave in such a way ever again in your presence.”

The Prince sunk down on one knee as he spoke, clasping his hands together as he looked up beseechingly at Sansa.

He must have thought her a fool, she realized. The kindness in his voice could not mask the fact that she had seen him for what he truly was: a monstrous boy filled to the brim with cruelty and anger.

“Your Grace, I am…humbled…by this gesture, and by the affection you bear towards me. I am absolutely undeserving of kindness from you.” Sansa lowered herself so she could look him in the eye. Covering his smooth hands with her own, she continued. “However, I find that I cannot simply cannot agree to this suit. You see…”

She hesitated for effect. “…while I can tell that you love me, I’m afraid that I will never be worthy of that love. Not when someone else holds my heart.”

“Someone else?”

There it was. That sharp, nasally tone.

“Alas, I gave my heart away to a boy back in the North. Father had not known of it until I told him a few days ago.” Sansa nodded, letting tears well to her eyes. “It was all very innocent, but I had longed for the day when I would marry him and bear his children. I hadn’t dared to say no to Father when he came to me with the King’s proposal. He loves King Robert so…but in the past months, as I saw how kind you were, and how wonderful…”

Joffrey had already stood up, looking disgruntled.

“…I simply could not find it in my heart to trick you into thinking I could ever give you my heart. Not the way as you deserve it. My Father - he’s a good man. He loves me, but still, he tried to assure me what a wonderful husband and father you would make. I’m so very sorry your Grace.” she finished, wiping at her damp cheeks. After a second, she threw in a sniffle for good measure.

“You should have said no to your Father.” Joffrey snarled, his true self now utterly revealed. “Do you understand how embarrassing this looks to the rest of the court?”

“Aye. I regret every second of my deception.” Sansa turned her face away as she climbed to her feet. Expertly, she hunched her shoulders and wrung her hands, the very picture of abject misery.

“You’re just a stupid girl.” he spat, and stormed towards the door. “When I am King, I can _make_ you marry me. Not that I even want you - Father arranged this. Every single maiden in court would have been a better choice than you…you insipid little slut.”

As soon as she was sure he was gone, Sansa smiled radiantly out the window, marvelling at the beauty of the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, just wanted to say thanks for all the support, and Happy Holidays! Hope everyone has a safe and wonderful season ahead :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot things happen. Jaime is summoned to the Riverlands.
> 
> A conversation happens.
> 
> More than one parting occurs...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had a good Christmas!

He still wasn’t quite sure what had possessed him to speak of his deepest - though not his worst - secret to Sansa, but if he had to guess, it had been because of the way she had looked at him immediately after they had made love.

Like he could do no wrong, and he was everything she had ever dreamed of, when once she dreamed her girlish dreams.

In that moment, the part of him that wasn’t completely ruined felt the urge to give her everything, though the cold, calculating voice that made him the Kingslayer reminded him of what he could lose if he truly revealed all his deeds.

Standing in the great hall behind King Robert, who broke his fast like a ravening animal, Jaime watched as the Crown Prince stormed in with an expression of thwarted rage stamped upon his pinched features.

“Darling, are you quite alright?” Cersei asked softly, reaching out for her son, who brushed past her as if she weren’t anything more than an annoying gnat.

“Father, I demand that you _order_ Lady Sansa to marry me. She cannot say no to a King.”

Fighting back a scowl, Jaime resisted the urge to draw his sword against the bratling for speaking of Sansa as if she were his servant to command.

Robert barely paused as he continued his meal. “No.”

“But Father, do you not see that in rejecting my… _our_ suit, she is defying the Crown?” Joffrey demanded.

“He’s right.” Cersei spoke up. “This cannot stand. We have been so gracious as to…”

“I said ‘no’.” Robert sighed. “Do you not see what kind of a King it would make me, if I forced an unwilling maiden to marry my overly spoiled son? How would it make me different from Rhaegar Targaryen, who forced his will upon Lyanna Stark? Enough Stark daughters have suffered in these halls for the vanity of Princes and Kings. I will have no more of it.”

Jaime eyes slid shut. The man knew what was about to happen - he had seen it too many times.

“At least Rhaegar exercised his right as the King’s son.” Cersei spat. “He was strong, and he didn’t care who knew it. He took what he wanted.”

“You would call that _strength_ of course.” Robert dropped his utensils with a clatter. “It hasn’t escaped me wife, that you would rather have married him, as much as I would have rather wed Lyanna.”

The cretinous King lived in some fantasy where a marriage to Lyanna Stark would have made him happy, would have made him less of an ogre, a fat, whoring fuck.

How long would it have been before she herself would have worn proof of his affections upon her face, Jaime had always wondered. How long would it have been before Ned Stark himself, or Brandon, if he had lived, marched upon Storm’s End to defend their sister’s honour, had she the misfortune to live and to marry Robert?

But for a twist of fate, perhaps the Lannisters and Starks might even have marched together as one under a Targaryen banner lead by Rhaegar himself, had the Prince forsaken love in the name of honour. Perhaps they could have rid the land of this sad excuse of a man who now sat his fat arse upon the Iron Throne.

Though who had put him there if not both his and Sansa’s family, in a war that created more rifts than it had healed?

While Jaime knew he could never be with Cersei ever again, he would always, always love her. They had come much too far for it to be any other way. By that dint, he would always hate the King for his treatment of her, and how the monarch had turned his sister into a spiteful, raging creature whose appetite for power would never be sated.

“I would have happily married the stablehand over marrying you. I would have happily shovelled shit the rest of my days over marrying you, had I had known what you were going to turn into.” his twin hissed.

Even Joffrey was beginning to wear that look of misery all the Baratheon children wore, when the King and Queen began to fight. It was plain to see that Crown Prince desperately wished he could have taken back his ridiculous plea to his father, made only two minutes before.

The fight would have continued, had one of Pycelle’s minions not entered the room bearing a parchment in his hands.

Grunting, Robert perused the contents of the scroll, before slamming it down on the great table in anger.

“What is it?” Cersei asked sharply.

The King looked over at her, before he cast a hooded glance at Jaime. Finally, he said without looking at his son, “Escort the Prince to his chambers.”

“But…” Joffrey began, his voice pitched in a high whine.

“Get to your room.” Robert thundered, getting to his feet.

Throwing his father a resentful glare, Joffrey followed a waiting steward. Once he was gone, Robert paced towards the large windows overlooking the city.

“This is from your father. The long and short of it is this: Catelyn Stark has taken your brother Tyrion.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jaime found himself asking aloud, shock rendering his tongue loose. “How…why has she taken Tyrion?”

“She has taken your brother prisoner, and she holds him in the sky cells of the Eyrie.” Robert explained with surprising patience, looking exhausted.

“How dare she…” Cersei began, rising from her seat. Her face was flushed in rage.

“Jaime, your father has asked for you to find him in the Riverlands.” the King said bitterly. “It appears he has decided that retribution is in order.”

“I still don’t understand…” Jaime shook his head as dread filled his stomach. “Why would she have taken our brother? There is no quarrel between our families.”

 _Unless_...

“Perhaps you should pay a visit to Lord Stark and demand to know what he thinks he’s doing.” Cersei stated in a way that meant she wasn’t asking, but telling. “You should show him what it means to take from the Lannisters.”

In her entire life, Cersei had always hated their deformed baby brother, convinced perpetually that he was the reason they had lost their Lady Mother. Like his father however, she had no qualms using him as an excuse to rise to offence, each and every time someone so much as insulted Tyrion, or cast him a sideways glance in her presence.

Tormenting their dwarf of a brother was a Lannister prerogative, and no one else’s.

“Your Grace, I do believe I shall speak with Lord Stark.” Jaime bowed.

“Jaime, your father is not a patient man.” Robert turned and looked him in the eye. “And you will not attack the Hand of the King over what is obviously some ridiculous misunderstanding. Are we clear?”

The knight bit back a retort. Were he not pursuing the Hand’s eldest daughter, there was no doubt he would already have departed, and hunted down Eddard Stark. As it was, he found himself caught in an uncomfortable trap.

“Yes your Grace.” Jaime bowed.

Looking to Ser Barristan Selmy, his Lord Commander nodded his dismissal, though it wasn’t as if the older man had a choice. Taking his leave, he did not fail to see the daggers in his sister’s gaze.

Hurrying through the halls and passageways leading to the Tower of the Hand, Jaime fought back waves of panic. Nevermind that this turn of events might have destroyed what chance he had of ask for Sansa’s hand in marriage. The fact was, the thought of leaving her alone in an uncaring city frightened him in a way he hadn’t realized would be possible. Watching her as she lay in his bed, pale and unconscious, hurt and broken, had brought home to him, the brutality of her calling.

The Slayer was deadly, fast and strong, but she was not infallible.

No matter that he wanted to stay however, Jaime knew he could not refuse his Father’s summons. Only once in his life had he truly defied his Tywin, and by the Seven, he had paid for it in blood.

Rounding a corner, he would have headed for Ned’s solar, except for the fact that he knew he would have no other chance to speak with Sansa. 

Throwing caution to the wind, he strode up the stairs leading to her chambers, and entered her rooms.

The Lady looked to be readying herself for a day with the horses. Handmaids fussed over her, as her Septa sat by looking distinctly bored.

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa exclaimed in surprise.

“Lady Sansa, I…I had come in search of your Father.” he improvised. “I have to speak to him on some important matters.”

“My Lord Father has gone into the city on some business.” Sansa curtsied gracefully, waving the handmaids away. “Perhaps I can be of some help?”

“I…” Jaime hesitated.

“I promise you ser, my father entrusts me with running messages of utmost importance. I’ve been doing it since I was a little girl.” she smiled charmingly, albeit impersonally. When he didn’t immediately answer, Sansa gestured to the handmaids, assuring each of them that she would be able to ready herself with only her Septa’s assistance.

As the young ladies filed out of the room, Jaime waited until every last one of them had disappeared before he approached his lover. He quite misliked the fact that at least one of the women in attendance was Cersei’s own handmaid.

“Septa, if you’d be so kind as to see to it that we’re not disturbed.” Sansa’s voice was no longer pitched at the musical octave she employed in the company of others.

“But…” the holy woman looked faintly mutinous as she got to her feet.

“Go. Please.” Sansa stated.

Chafing at the minutes being wasted, Jaime made a small noise of impatience. With one last hesitant look, the older woman left the room, closing the doors behind her. Striding towards Sansa, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed a desperate kiss upon her lips, unconsciously memorizing how she tasted, how she felt in his arms.

“What’s happened?” Sansa asked the moment she had a chance to breathe.

“Your mother. She’s taken my brother prisoner.” Jaime said, releasing his hold on her quickly, on the chance that they would be interrupted. “I have been summoned by my father to the Riverlands.”

The dread he felt in his heart was plainly reflected in her blue eyes.

“Why would my mother do such a thing?” she asked, biting her bottom lip.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t lying when I said I had business with your father.” Jaime told her, pacing back and forth, his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Sansa, I couldn’t leave without seeing you. I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to fix this.”

“Will you be asked to fight against…against my kin?” the woman he loved asked in response, looking as if she feared the answer.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to, believe me. But…” Jaime hesitated again. “Sansa, your mother’s actions…blood is close to being spilled, if it hasn’t already been drawn.”

“Whatever happens…whatever happens, know that I love you.” she said quietly.

“And I you. I love you. By the old gods and the new…I will find my way back to you, wherever you are.” Jaime promised as she nodded. “Look after yourself. Trust nobody, not even your maids.”

Before she could answer him, the doors to her chambers flew open as Lord Eddard Stark himself entered.

“Ser Jaime. I’m surprised to find you here…alone with my daughter.” the Warden of the North said flatly.

“Father, I had offered to pass Ser Jaime’s message on to you. He was in a hurry, and he sounded as if it were a matter of great import.” Sansa offered hurriedly.

“What did you tell her?” Lord Stark refused to take his eyes off Jaime.

“Only that I wanted a word with you. It’s a family matter you see - that is, yours and mine both.” the knight could not keep the note of anger from his voice. Although he would not think to hurt Sansa’s father, his younger brother was nonetheless currently languishing in Lysa Arryn’s cells for some unfathomable reason, on the orders of Catelyn Stark.

“Daughter, would you be so kind as to give us the room?” Ned asked politely. Reluctantly, Sansa picked up her skirts and did as she was bid. Once she was past her father, the young woman cast Jaime a look filled with fear…and brimming with such an amount of tenderness, the knight suddenly found himself regretting not whisking her away to the Free Cities when they still had the chance.

“Speak.” the Hand commanded, approaching him slowly.

“Why did your wife take Tyrion?” Jaime forced his voice into a semblance of calmness.

“She did it on my orders.” Ned said, finally shifting his gaze.

 _Honourable Ned Stark lying to protect his Lady Wife,_ he thought with a small measure of surprise.

“Why would you order such a thing?” he pressed on. “My brother is a lot of things. He loves his whores, his wine and his gambling. But he’s never knowingly hurt a soul.”

There was a look now of guilt, passing through Ned’s features.

“We have reason to believe that Tyrion tried to have my son Bran murdered.” Lord Stark said at last, when the silence stretched too long.

For a moment, Jaime’s heart froze in his chest.

“Tyrion is the only man in my family who has never killed, or hurt another soul.” Jaime refused to remember Tysha. That hadn’t been his brother’s fault, none of it. “Out of all of us, he has the least sullied hands. I assure you Lord Stark, you have the wrong man.”

“Ser Jaime, the truth is, you have never given me a reason to trust you. Yet…in this matter, I sense in my soul that you speak the truth.” Eddard sat down heavily in a wooden chair, looking resigned. “There is no convincing Catelyn however, once she’s set her mind to something. I swear, sometimes I think it’s the Tully in her blood that has her so hotheaded and stubborn.”

“My father has already rallied his bannermen. He has asked for me to meet him in the Riverlands.” Jaime sighed even as Ned grimaced. “I don’t want a fight, and I don’t want a war, over what sounds like a very strange misunderstanding. I will speak to my father, if you will see to your wife.”

The Hand nodded slowly, before fixing a strange look upon Jaime. “I believe you when you say your brother is innocent. But as for yourself and your sister…”

“I know very well what you think of me. But what are you implying of the Queen?” Without thinking, Jaime’s hand squeezed down upon the grip of his weapon.

“Nothing at all.” Ned leaned back. “If anything, I see it as my duty to ensure that her life, and the lives of your niece and nephews, are protected with everything in my power. After all, I serve the crown, same as you.”

On one hand, the Northman sounded as if he were making some vague threat. On the other hand, Jaime had no doubt Eddard Stark meant every word he uttered.

“Don’t you have to go find Tywin?” Lord Stark asked softly.

Feeling as if he had been somehow bested, Jaime abruptly turned and stalked out of the Tower of the Hand, fuming with every step.

***

 _Ned will command his wife to release Tyrion, and he would tell his father to step down,_ Jaime repeated over and over in his mind. Surely his father would be inclined to listen to him, especially when he sweetened the deal by asking, nay, demanding that he be released from his sacred oaths for the sake of honouring the Lannister name.

Gathering his belongings, he could hear his men gathering in the courtyard below, awaiting his orders. All that was left for him to do was to ride away from the Red Keep. Away from the woman who held his heart in her hands.

“Were you going to leave without saying a word to me?” an unmistakable voice asked from behind him. There was a soft hiss as his door slid shut.

“You heard the King. Our father is a man of little patience.” Jaime scowled, turning to look at his sister.

“Yet you found time to pay court to Lady Sansa.” Cersei observed coolly, her eyes flashing angrily under the cowl of her hood.

“I went to speak with her father. When I couldn’t find him, I thought to leave a message with her, and to ask her why her mother would do something so stupid.” Jaime said quite honestly.

“And?” Cersei’s anger seemed to fade momentarily, replaced with genuine curiosity. “Did that little idiot know anything of her mother’s plans?”

“Ned Stark found me…” Jaime sat down and began to tug his boots on. “It appears Catelyn Stark is under the impression that Tyrion might have tried to murder their son.”

As expected, Cersei paled drastically. They had never explicitly told their younger brother of what exactly had occurred with Bran Stark…but their brother was clever.

“Perhaps…” she paced his floor, wringing her hands. “…it would be wise to find a way to simply let him perish in the Sky Cells.”

Pausing in the act of fastening his laces, Jaime stared up at Cersei with mounting ire. “He’s our brother. I don’t want a war but I don’t want him dead.”

“You’ve always been too soft on him.” his twin said sharply as she closed the distance between them. “Jaime, the only thing I care about is…”

“I know. I know what you mean to say.” he grabbed her hands before she could fist her fingers in his tunic. For a moment, they were close enough for him to lean in for a kiss. Resisting the almost overpowering urge to do so, very carefully, he pushed his twin away.

“You’ve changed.” she said, looking down at him in consternation. Her hood had fallen away, revealing her glorious, golden locks. “You’re not the man who rode up to Winterfell with me.”

“No, of course I’m not. You see, while we were up there, we tried to murder a child for the sake of protecting our secret.” he picked up his pack and stood. “And now we speak of letting our brother die for the exact same reason. How many more must suffer for our sake Cersei?”

“There was a time you wouldn’t have cared.” she sounded more shocked than angry.

There was no turning back now. “Sister, this thing between us. It cannot persist. Surely you see it. For the good of your soul and what’s left of mine…”

“How could you even think to say such things?” she looked as if he had ripped her very heart out of her chest, Jaime thought even as his own shattered into a million pieces.

“Cersei…I will never, ever stop loving you.” he said truthfully, allowing his fingertips to ghost over the shape of her beloved face. “But it is time for us to put childish things aside, and understand the consequences of our actions.”

Without warning, she lifted an elegant hand and slapped him hard across his face.

“I will not accept this Jaime Lannister.” she hissed. “You’re mine. You will always be mine. Maybe you don’t see it just now, but you will.”

Turning on her heel, she left him staring after her like a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some angsty chapters coming up as our lovers are separated for now. There is a reunion planned nonetheless.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is forced to face certain realities.  
> Ned chooses honour.  
> There is a reversal of roles.

By day, Sansa attended the needlework sessions with the other womenfolk, same as she had been doing since she’d arrived in the Capital. When the opportunity arose, she went riding or hawking with the younger ladies of the court, or strolled the winding pathways of the rose garden, admiring the blooms of late summer.

The only thing that had changed was everyone now spoke of, in low, excited murmurs.

“They say the Prince cast her aside,” one of her peers whispered, utterly destroying a flower she was pretending to embroider. “They say he found her manners too coarse, her looks too plain.”

“That’s not why. Did you not notice how the Kingslayer was sent so abruptly from the Red Keep?” another replied in softly, setting down her hoop. “They think Jaime Lannister got her with child.”

“That would explain why she’s always seen in the hallways of the Grand Maester,” someone tittered. “That poor man must be exhausted brewing her all that Moon Tea.”

“Aye. The Crown Prince did himself a fine thing, ridding himself of a doxy such as she.”

All of it should have either insulted or amused the Slayer, if only she didn’t feel the absence of Jaime like a gaping hole in her side.

Perhaps it was her imagination, she thought, but the Queen’s obvious irritation in the face of the gossipmongers seemed to spur the enthusiasm of all who surrounded the two women. They seemed determined, every last one of these idiots, to catch the Lannister daughter in a lie of her own. Green eyes flashed angrily and often in Sansa’s direction these days, and those glares were harder to shake off than cruel words.

If Jeyne had travelled to the city with her, if Sansa had never been called as a Slayer, would she have been as callow and insipid as her current company?

Regardless, Sansa continued to smile sweetly, ignoring the sharp piercing in her chest every time the knight’s name was uttered. It was easier to pretend she hadn’t heard every last one of the gaggle’s sharp jabs, than to confront them about the rumours they all seemed intent on perpetrating.

As the weeks passed however, and as she saw less and less of her Father and her sister, Sansa found herself wandering the hallways of the castle alone, when she wasn’t occupied with the delicate distractions afforded to the ladies of the court.

The whole castle had been buzzing with a new rumour - that the King was not long for this world. While her father had said nothing, everyone was aware that Robert lay dying from an injury taken during a boar hunt gone brutally wrong.

Ned Stark himself, now acted in the stead of the King, and as one of his first orders, had commanded that Beric Dondarrion take his men, to apprehend Lannister men who had taken to raiding the Riverlands. Thoros, the priest with the flaming sword whom she had encountered only once during the Tourneys, left with the Lord of Blackhaven.

All these things seemed to be harbingers of larger ills to come, but as her Father did not seem inclined to speak with her on his business as Hand of the King, the Slayer did not think to inquire too deeply.

The only thing truly left to Sansa, was the ever-thinning, selfish hope that things would resolve themselves - even if her parents seemed intent on pursuing a quarrel with Jaime’s family.

It was on one such empty afternoon when the woman had not very much to occupy herself with at all, that she strolled past a familiar tapestry. The beautifully embroidered material, she knew, covered not a brick wall, but rather a secret tunnel that passed from one end of the castle to another.

Hesitating, she looked around warily, before ducking into the dark passageway.

It did not take very long for her sight to adjust to the inky blackness that surrounded her. Hardly surprising, given the fact that her place in the scheme of things was relegated to the shadows. Carefully, the Slayer picked her way through the abandoned tunnel.

Passing the spot where both herself and Jaime had fled from the crowds for the sake of a moment alone, Sansa forced herself not to linger.

 _I will find my way back to you, wherever you are,_ he had sworn.

Sincerity had lit his eyes in that moment, and she knew in her heart of hearts that the knight had meant every word he said. Yet it wasn’t Jaime she didn’t trust - it was this life she lived, filled with such twists and perils as she had never expected.

Forcing away a sob, knowing that if she began to cry, she would simply stop moving altogether, Sansa forced herself to keep on moving.

The tunnels extended much further than she could have dreamed, she found after a half hour of exploration. Passage after passage she found, extending this way and that. A few times, she found herself stumbling out into the light, in hallways far from where she started. Other times, she even found the few passageways the servants still used, forcing her to retreat quickly and silently.

One particularly long and chill tunnel dipped downwards into the ground. Under her feet, the ground grew wetter and wetter, while overhead, the ceilings dripped down upon her hair. Brushing her fingers against the wall, Sansa’s hand came away covered in slime.

 _I think I found a tunnel leading out of the castle,_ Arya had told her only a few mornings ago. Cautiously, the Slayer reached her right hand into the folds of her skirt and drew her favourite stake. Her dress, she knew, was most likely ruined, but she had come so far…

Onwards she traversed. It might have been miles she walked, or perhaps it just felt like it. The roar of waves became louder with every step, causing Sansa to smile. Rounding a sharp corner, and then another, suddenly, there was light. Salt air filled her nostrils.

Sansa found herself standing at the mouth of a cave that opened to a small, sandy strip of a beach of sorts. To her left, she spied the tall masts of ships docked in the harbour, while on the horizon, she could see ships disappearing into tiny specks against the brilliant orange of the setting sun.

Perhaps there was loveliness to be found in the capital after all, she thought with a small twinge of pleasure. The moment would have been sweeter, if a certain golden haired knight had been beside her, but as it were, Sansa simply settled for a moment of contentment all on her own.

Stepping away from the cave opening, she turned and looked up. To her surprise, the Red Keep wasn’t in fact, that far away.

Casting a regretful look over her shoulder at the glorious sunset behind her, Sansa sighed, knowing she had to return now to the depths of the castle.

Brushing her hair from her face, she turned her countenance towards the darkness and stepped in.

***

By night, the Slayer stalked the alleyways and filthy streets of the city.

Ever since Tomas has accosted and injured her, Sansa had learned never to let her confidence get the better of her. Fledgelings were easy to spot, easy to kill. They were always hungrier, more careless, less graceful in the way they moved.

Older vampires, she was coming to learn, had a certain _way_ about them. Their clothing either hung in dusty tatters upon their lethal forms, or they wore finely tailored outfits, carefully fitted to suit their nocturnal habits. Without fail however, the older demons tended to garb themselves in garments that did not resemble what the current styles were; sleeves were too long, lapels too elaborate…

Who would have guessed that her old obsession with sewing and clothing could have turned out to be of such use when hunting fiends of the night?

Regardless, she killed with little to no impunity. Old and young vampires alike fell to her blade, her dagger and her stake.

But still, the one she sought evaded her efforts…that is, until the night before her life irrevocably changed once again.

Prowling across the rooftops of the Street of Silk, Sansa desperately attempted not to remember how it had felt, the night when Jaime held her as they had traipsed through the cobbled pathways below. The recollection of how his arms had encircled her, the way he had looked upon her the first time they had ever kissed…

Silently, she watched as a buxom whore embraced a visiting merchant, a man whom, if she squinted, might have been her own, much missed lover. Mouth going dry, she observed as the woman wantonly released the ties on her customer’s tunic, before running her long fingered hands over a very naked chest…

“Enjoying the view are we, Slayer?”

Whipping around, Sansa had both her sword and dagger drawn in a width of a second.

“Tomas.” she stated calmly and coldly.

“You remembered. How sweet.” he laughed, moving to stand a few feet away from her as he surveyed the street below. “I notice you’ve finally abandoned your companion. And before you start - I’m not here for a fight. I’m here to talk, same as before.”

“You broke my arm.”

“You healed. Quickly, I might add.” Tomas said calmly, reminding her of the fact that he was watching her without her knowing. “I could have killed you that night but I didn’t. I hope that’s bought me a conversation at the very least.”

“How do you do it?” she asked. “How do I never sense your presence? I sense all of your kind.”

“Do you really? Tell me, how do you find a burning candle in a forest fire?” he met her gaze. Once again, she was struck by how dark his eyes were.

Understanding at last flowered in Sansa’s mind, though the blossoms were hideous. How could she spot one bloodsucking demon when the air was perpetually thick with their presence? The more time she spent wandering the boroughs, the less she felt the presence of any specific vampire; evil was ingrained into the very fabric that was King’s Landing.

“I don’t want to harm you. The way I see it, you’re not much different from me. You live at the whims of people who could give a damn if you live or die.” Tomas sauntered boldly towards her, his sable cloak fluttering in the breeze.

“I was a soldier once and I fought for the same people you fought for. I died at their hands when I wanted better. They disagreed with that notion that I deserved to be more than I was - ‘You should know your place’, they told me, and that place was under their feet. You think I’m like this because I’m a vampire, but that’s where you’re wrong. I was born in these streets and I died in these streets, but the man you see before you, is the man I’ve always been.”

Demons were never to be trusted, yet Sansa found herself listening to his every word.

“Will you take a walk with me?” he asked, looking down upon her.

“Why? So you can lure me into a trap?” she scoffed, though she realized the foolishness of her words the moment she uttered them.

“I could kill you right here my Lady.” Tomas smiled, gesturing vaguely. “I’ve got a man not far away, with a crossbow trained on your heart…I wouldn’t even have to bite you, though mind you, your blood tempts me even now.”

Sansa wavered. There was a tremor in the air and something flew past her, before clattering against an empty rain barrel.

A bolt, from a crossbow. The vampire was not bluffing.

“And…in case you’re worried I’ve got something more untoward in mind…I assure you. I have no interest in sampling whatever other…skills you might offer.”

“You’re disgusting.” the Slayer said plainly.

“And you’re a spoiled highborn lady, who is in over her head.” he said, crooking his arm in her direction. “Though I do believe there is hope for you yet.”

Refusing to take his proffered elbow, she sheathed her weapons nonetheless. “Lead the way Vampire.”

Shrugging, he began to walk, and Sansa followed.

***

At first, Sansa saw nothing but empty doorways leading into stinking hovels. Puddles of literal shit attracted tireless flies at her feet, while vermin scuttled openly, squirming hungrily around her leather boots.

The longer she stared however, the clearer she could see the beseeching eyes looking out at her from the crevices and the cracks. Children stared back in fright at her as she passed.

“What is this?” she hissed. “What has happened here?”

“Happened?” Tomas replied. “Nothing’s happened. This is Flea Bottom my Lady.”

Jaime had once, in passing, explained to her the boroughs and the avenues of the Capital. Of Flea Bottom, he had looked almost embarrassed as he spoke of it.

“A ruby upon the crown that is King’s Landing,” he told her sardonically.

At the time, she had wondered at his manner, his choice of words.

Close by, a woman’s body sat crumpled against a broken doorway, nothing more than a pile of skin, bones and rags.

“Alma.” Tomas said softly to the desiccated creature, kneeling down upon the dirty street. “Alma, it’s time to turn in.”

“I can’t turn in yet Tommy. I haven’t got enough coppers for the children.” Alma explained patiently. “They’ve been after me for a bowl o’brown for days.”

“Go to bed darling. I saw the children at the potshop earlier today. They’ve been fed and they’re inside sleeping as we speak.” Tomas assured. The woman breathed heavily, though Sansa could tell her heartbeat was much weakened.

“Ah Tomas, you’re a sweet lad.” she grasped at the vampire’s pale hand.

“Go on,” he urged. Alma nodded and crept away into her shack, where Sansa could hear her lone heartbeat thrumming.

Slayer and Vampire kept on walking.

“Where were the children you spoke of?” Sansa asked wretchedly.

“Dead. Dead for years now Lady Sansa.” Tomas said quietly. “Dead for the sake of Robert’s Rebellion, at the hands of the Lannister men.”

“Whose side were they on?” she asked faintly.

“Does it matter?” he stopped walking. “Sansa, I told you. It doesn’t matter who sits on that bloody throne. It’s always us who suffer. Us who live in this city, and exist at the whims of the King, the Citadel, the Sept, or whoever the fuck is in power.”

“You’ve showed me the city’s suffering, yes. You’ve explained well enough, the pain of the people.” Sansa growled. “But what do you want from me?”

“You’re a Slayer, and these are the people you were always meant to help. In your case, you’re one of the nobility. Do you know what power you have?” Tomas demanded. All around her, Sansa could sense both the dead and the living waiting for her answer. “You have the power to help us, help those who would actually do some good.”

“Good.” Sansa’s voice dropped to a deadly octave. “You prey on the blood of the living. You’re a monster.”

“Call me what you will Slayer.” Tomas stated. “It doesn’t change what I’m saying.”

She wanted to tell him ‘no’, wanted to tell the demon before her that she’d rather die before she handed him another inch of King’s Landing. Yet all around her was proof of the King’s negligence. How long had she herself tried to pretend she didn’t see the corpses of the people laying in the street, dead by starvation or disease, and not by the fangs of the undead?

How did King Robert sleep at night, even as his people suffered not five feet away from the Red Keep?

“Take your time.” he said at last, as if understanding he had swayed her, if not convinced her. “Myself and my men, we will not touch you. At least, not until you’ve given me an answer, one way or another. I can’t vouch for the other vampires of course - not all of them see the world the way I do. Most of them see this world as theirs for the plundering. They’re almost as bad as your kind really.”

“What did the other Slayers tell you? Surely I’m not the first you’ve come to with your ridiculous plea,” she asked, ignoring his insults.

“They told me they did not intend to bite the hand that feeds them.” he shrugged. “They didn’t care for right or wrong, only that the Citadel and the Sept kept them clothed and fed.”

 _What a noble calling she had won,_ Sansa thought bitterly.

Unexpectedly, Tomas swept forwards, wrapping an arm like a band of iron around her waist. Cold lips brushed against her own, swallowing her gasp of shock and revulsion. The demon’s mouth tasted of blood, and the knowledge made Sansa sick to her stomach.

“Gods…I can see now, why Jaime Lannister would forsake his own Queen…” Tomas murmured. Before she could plunge a blade into him for his impertinence, the vampire had already darted off back into the shadows.

Shaking in disbelief, Sansa snarled and drew her sword, spinning this way and that, determined to seek satisfaction against the vampire’s daring. Thwarted, the Slayer released a long shriek of frustration.

***

Stepping into the Tower of the Hand, the Slayer climbed softly towards her chambers, careful as always not to be heard, though she expected the hallways to be empty at this early hour. Outside, dawn was breaking.

What she didn’t expect was her father rushing towards her chambers as she fumbled with the door handle. Arya followed in his wake, looking more than a little mutinous.

“I don’t want to go. Please Father, I have my lessons…” her sister pleaded aloud.

“Sansa, I’ve been searching all over for you for the past few hours. Where have you been?” Lord Stark thundered, before he paused and took note of her garb. His eyes lingered on her sword in its scabbard, on the dagger at her waist. “What is this?”

“Father I…” Sansa stuttered, her mind racing for an explanation that didn’t sound trite. “…I couldn’t sleep and so…”

“So you’ve been wandering about, armed to the teeth?” Ned’s eyes turned flinty as Arya gazed at her older sister in surprise.

“I can explain, I swear…”

“Sansa, the King is dead.” Ned shook his head. “The King is dead, and I am sending both yourself and Arya back to Winterfell. I will follow as soon as I am able. I’m afraid King’s Landing is not a safe haven for any of us, but I cannot speak further on this. Your Septa has been up all night packing your belongings.”

“But…” Sansa panicked for a moment before she collected herself. Better for her to leave this hellhole, she reminded herself. If Jaime ever fixed the growing mess between the Starks and Lannisters, it didn’t matter where she was - she had to trust that he would find her.

“I don’t want to leave.” Arya spoke up. “My lessons are going well. If we go home, nobody will ever let me lift a sword again.”

Ned looked between his daughters. “I’m not asking. I’m telling.”

With a noise of frustration, the young girl turned and sprinted away. Growling, the Warden of the North turned to look at his eldest daughter. “See to it that she is ready to travel by midday. And once we have a chance, you will explain to me why you are wandering about, fully armed and dressed like you’re ready for a brawl.”

“I will tell you everything.” Sansa promised. She was tired of lies, tired of hiding. “I have wanted to tell you for some time…but it is not a discussion to be had here, in the open hallways of the Red Keep.”

Lord Eddard Stark looked at Sansa as if he did not recognize the woman before him, who stood so tall and sure of herself.

“Once you’re ready, get yourself and Arya to the harbour.” Ned hesitated before he turned away. “Speak to no one who did not travel with us from Winterfell. I will leave Jory and his guards behind, and he will escort the both of you where you need to go. Sansa - you must protect your sister…I cannot believe I am saying this to you, but do not be so quick to relinquish your sword… You might have need of it.”

“Father…”

“Sansa, we will speak on this _later_.”

There was no recrimination in his tone, but neither was there room for discussion. Clapping her shoulder the way she had seen him do to Robb and Jon hundreds of times, Ned hurried off.

Entering her rooms, Sansa found herself staring at a scene of chaos. Boxes and cases were stacked into teetering towers, while Septa Mordane bustled about, trying to finish her given tasks. Catching sight of the Slayer, the older woman froze in her steps, and very hoarsely, informed her, “This is not what Pycelle and I had hoped. Your place is here, in the Capital,”

“I do not intend to defy my father.” Sansa told her firmly. “And I do not think you wish to either.”

“We have to get Arya’s belongings together.” her Septa said after a moment, gesturing to the adjoining door leading to the young girl’s room. “ _She_ refused orders from your father to get anything together.”

Hastily, Sansa followed the older woman to her sister’s room, shutting the common door between them. Hurriedly, the two of then spent the better part of the next hour stuffing everything they could lay their hands on, into available cases, even as Northmen rushed in and out, ferrying all packed boxes to the stables.

“Do you know what this is about?” Sansa asked at last, when they had a moment.

“Not really…” Septa Mordane huffed, wiping at her brow. “Though I expect this has something to do with King Robert’s passing. Sansa, hadn’t you better change into something more fitting for travel?”

“Father told me to remained armed and ready.” the Slayer admitted. “He caught me as I returned.”

The Septa looked as if she were about to offer her usual diatribe about how Sansa needed to be more discreet in her comings and goings, when from the hallway, unfriendly voices floated towards them.

“…here for Lord Stark’s daughters. The Queen has ordered for them to be taken away for their own safety.”

That last voice, Sansa thought. That was Sandor Clegane, the man who had slaughtered Mycah like he was no more than a dog. Frowning, Sansa opened her mouth to question why the Hound would be here at all on the orders of the Queen, when the unmistakable sounds of fighting began filtering through the walls. This was followed by the screams of dying men.

Instinctively, the Slayer reached for her weapons.

“Remember yourself.” Septa Mordane hissed. “You should never lift a finger against…”

“I won’t kill anyone.” Sansa replied coldly. “What I don’t understand is why they’re even here, to take my sister and I into their custody.”

The older woman stared at the Slayer in growing panic, before she finally said, “I sent a message to Pycelle to inform him that the Slayer was leaving for the North…he must have told the Queen and somehow…”

The Slayer stared at the other woman, aghast.

“I had to! I have a duty!” the woman looked as if she were about to cry as regret filled her eyes. “Go find your sister, and get yourself to the harbour as your father said. Go.”

“What about you?” Sansa asked. Already, they could hear the men forcing their way into the Slayer’s chambers.

“I will hold them off. They can’t hurt me…I am a woman of the cloth.”

Sansa wavered between facing the Hound, and finding her sister. There were loud crashes now, coming from the other room.

“Go!” her Septa physically shoved her towards the main entrance of Arya’s chambers. Making a decision at last, the woman pushed through the heavy wooden doors and found to her horror, Jory Cassel’s body splayed out and loose-limbed in death, right outside the threshold.

Ignoring the painful twist of fear and grief in her gut, Sansa allowed her senses to guide her steps as she began to run. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of pursuit, though they were no match for the speed at which she sprinted. Blindly, she passed through what felt like countless corridors and hallways; at almost every turn, she found herself staring into the glassy, staring eyes of dead Northmen.

After what felt like an eternity, Sansa found herself in the training yard where her sister spent her days learning the Water Dance.

To her dismay, soldiers had already gathered there, including Meryn Trant, yet another member of the Kingsguard. The small company of men surrounded two figures - Arya, and a man that could only have been her sister’s sparring mentor Syrio Forel.

“Stay away from her.” Sansa said out loud, drawing her sword and her dagger both. Surprised, the men turned to look at her before they burst out laughing.

“Arya run!” she called out. The sounds of boots pounding from behind the Slayer told the the young woman that her own pursuers were drawing near.

“No, I won’t leave you!” Arya said with a familiar, determined look that caused Sansa’s heart to sink. The girl began to running towards her older sister, even as Syrio reached out a hand to hold her back.

For his troubles, the slight man found himself with a dagger embedded deeply into his side, a blow which forced the swordsman to his knees, along with a reedy cry of agony from his chest. Meryn Trant loped easily after Arya and snatched her kicking and screaming form off the ground.

“No!” Sansa shouted, and made to pursue the brute dragging her sister away. She didn’t make it very far however. The first of the soldiers was upon her, and made to grab her the way Meryn had taken her sister. With a swing of her broadsword, the Slayer cut through chainmail, cloth, and skin, sinking her blade into the man’s arm before brutally yanking her weapon back. Even as the larger man howled in pain, the Slayer moved like a whir of scarlet rage, carving a bloody path through the ranks of her opponents with as much precision as she could muster.

In mere moments, Sansa understood that it took more effort for her not to kill them, than it would have to simply put an end to their existence.

“You useless cunts!” Sandor Clegane’s voice roared. “Step aside,”

Sansa was outnumbered, and unless she was willing to start killing everyone around her, she realized she would either be captured or ended in short order. Both would render her useless to Arya, and most likely, her father.

Lashing out with her full strength, she struck at her opponents with the flat of her blade, knocking them all to the ground. Dodging grasping hands with inhuman speed and agility, she began once again to run, only to find her path blocked by Sandor himself.

The Hound towered over her menacingly, his scarred face twisted in a rictus of anger.

“Little Bird, either you give up now, or I make you give up, and I don’t relish having to hurt you,” he stepped close.

Narrowing her eyes, Sansa sheathed her sword and dagger. Reaching out, she grabbed the man by his throat and lifted him off the ground, dangling him like he was nothing more than a helpless kitten. Dropping his weapons in shock, Sandor clawed instinctively at her vice-like fingers.

Ruthlessly, the Slayer threw Sandor directly into a close-by pillar. With a loud crash, the man slammed hard into the unforgiving surface, and slid bonelessly to the ground where he lay gasping for breath, stunned out of his mind.

Turning, Sansa continued to flee, until at last, she found a familiar hanging on the wall…ducking behind the tapestry, she loped headlong into the darkness, allowing her memory of the tunnels under the Red Keep to guide her steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because its New Year's Day...next chapter will also be posted.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin observes changes in his son.  
> Jaime gets some seriously shitty fake news.

The journey was long and dull, and everywhere he looked, he could not help but see the truth in the Stark words.

Winter indeed, was well on its way. The air became chillier with every mile Jaime and his men crossed as they rode northwards, the ground beneath their restless feet, colder.

By the time Jaime found himself within sight of scarlet Lannister banners waving menacingly in the cold breeze sweeping across the land, the men he had rode out of King’s Landing with, were now numbered at forty-two.

He had left with fifty.

In the past, when numbers in his company shrunk, Jaime had simply assumed as most others did, that the missing soldiers were camp deserters. Craven men, who feared hardship and death, or tired men, who were sick of violence and cruelty.

Now, with every disappearance, Jaime found himself waiting expectantly outside the protective circle of his small vanguard, long after everyone else had fallen asleep. Almost always, the lost soldiers would return thirsty for more than ale. The scent of his blood, without fail, drove each of them to carelessness.

It gave him no joy to kill these fledgelings - after all, they had been his men to protect until not so very long ago, and they had been on this journey on his orders. Every fledgeling wearing the face of one of his men, felt like a distinct failure on his part, and perhaps because of that, he could not help but consider every vampire killed as another connecting thread between himself and Sansa.

Hadn’t he lectured her not so very long ago, about taking on the weight of every life lost to the darkness?

Regardless, he was thankful for every one in the company who remained alive and breathing by dawn, and thankful for the fact that he was able to do what was necessary to keep all their hearts beating.

If - no, not if, _when_ , he vowed, when he returned to Sansa’s side, he owed her his life and the lives of his soldiers ten times over. When he found her again, he swore to himself as he tamped down the ache in his heart borne simply of missing her, he would see to it that they would never be apart again for the rest of his sorry life.

Though he supposed, it all depended on his Father’s assistance, and the actions of Ned and Catelyn Stark. All that, and Sansa staying alive long enough for him to make it back to her side.

How many nights had he lain awake under the stars, wondering what she was doing, and if she was safe? How many nights had he stared blankly into the fire, praying to any god that would listen, that Sansa would survive not only the demons of King’s Landing, but the hidden dangers of the court?

And the longing. The pure physical longing he felt in her absence. How is it that a few intimate moments in the shadows had left him with such a craving to feel the smoothness of her skin under his hands once more? Too often, Jaime awoke in the mornings curled into his bedroll with one hand fisted around his painfully hard cock, inspired by hazy dreams of blue eyes, pale skin and scarlet hair.

Inevitably, golden hair and green eyes invaded his slumbering mind just as frequently…but visions of Cersei somehow always left him feeling old and empty. Words from their final confrontation echoed hollowly as he dreamed.

More than once, he found himself reaching to stop her from walking away as she had done in actuality…and it always ended with her crumbling away to dust, the moment he touched her.

As the son of Tywin Lannister cantered into camp upon his tired mount, the Westermen who followed Jaime’s father carved a path for him instinctively, respectfully tipping their heads in greeting. The air smelled of wood fire, steel and horse shit, while the ground below lay muddied from piss and and autumn rain.

Dismounting before the tent to which he had been guided to, Jaime ignored his Father’s fluttering Steward as he pushed his way through the heavy canvas flaps.

“Jaime.” Tywin said as Jaime approached. The man did not deign to turn away from his task of gutting a freshly slaughtered stag. “I’m glad to see you’ve finally arrived.”

“I left the Capital the same day your raven arrived.” Jaime stated dourly. “I answered _your_ message the moment I received it.”

“Is that your clever way of hinting at something?” the Warden of the West wiped his bloody hands on a dirty rag.

“I don’t know. Is it?” Jaime tilted his head to the side, his tone dry as winter as he spoke. For whatever reason, Tywin had a way of drawing out the child in him, rendering him both afraid and defiant all at once.

Turning fully to look upon his oldest son, Tywin stated coolly. “You want the Stark girl.”

Slowly, Jaime nodded.

“And you’ll give up that foolish white cloak for her.” Tywin continued. “Of all the highborn ladies in the Seven Kingdoms…nay, of all the _women_ in the Seven Kingdoms, you had you pick the one whose family has all but declared themselves to be our enemies.”

“We don’t make peace with our friends, only our enemies,” Jaime said. “Those are your words.”

Tywin worked his jaw as if weighing his response. To the younger man’s relief, the man’s lips twisted upwards in the closest approximation of a grin as he had ever seen upon his father’s countenance. “Using my own words to get you what you want. Clever.”

“I’m not trying to be clever,” The man replied honestly.

“No. No you’re not are you?” Tywin said, tilting his head slightly. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to come to your senses, for you to ask to be released from those asinine vows you so foolishly took in your youth?”

Biting back a retort at this point took every last crumb of restraint Jaime possessed. To him, those vows had once meant everything. Nevermind that his foolish illusions had crumbled to so much dust, hearing Tywin disparage them for the thousandth time still, somehow, stung.

“You needn’t have worried. I will gladly see to it that you’re released from the Kingsguard once this mess has been resolved. As for your suit for Sansa Stark however…” his father sighed. “I _may_ forgive Eddard Stark for issuing me a summons to court, to answer for the crimes of Gregor Clegane. You must however, see how much harder it is to forgive the insult they laid upon our name when they took Tyrion.”

“I didn't realize you placed such a high value on my brother's life, enough that you would called your bannermen together, whilst summoning me at the same time.” Jaime observed. “You should know that I spoke with Ned Stark. He agrees with me that this was all merely a bad misunderstanding on the part of his wife.”

“ _Spoke_ with Lord Stark?” Tywin could not hide his surprise. “Tyrion might be the lowest of the Lannisters, but he’s still a Lannister. For this insult, I would have expected you to do much more than simply _speak_ with the Northern barbarian.”

Jaime found himself flustered once again. “In another life, perhaps I would have tried kill the man. But I can’t very well try to kill the father of the woman I’m trying to wed.”

Tywin blinked like a great cat as he studied his son.

“It’s all very well that you’re in love. But Jaime…your mother's dead. Before long, I'll be dead. And you, and your brother, and your sister and all of her children. All of us dead, all of us rotting in the ground. It's the family name that lives on. It's _all_ that lives on. Not your personal glory, not your honour, but family. We could establish a dynasty that will last a thousand years....or we could collapse into nothing, as the Targaryens did. Do you understand?”

“Let me be very clear on the matter.” Jaime’s voice lowered. “The woman I marry will be Sansa Stark, or not at all.”

“Again, I remind you…”

“I will ride East and I will find Catelyn Stark. Whether or not her husband’s words has reached her, I will broker for peace and for reason.” Jaime said firmly, finding himself on firmer ground now that he had taken a stand.

“And if she forces you to share a cell with your brother?” Tywin asked.

“She won’t.” Jaime said with more conviction than he felt.

“I don’t see how this answers my question on how you think the Starks will deign to offer you their daughter’s hand.” Tywin pressed on.

“You’re assuming the Lady herself is unwilling, and we haven’t already spoken of this. She will see to it that Ned Stark agrees to my suit.” Jaime said through gritted teeth, hating that he had to explain himself to his father.

“What is it about this woman…this Sansa Stark, that has made you forget yourself so?” Tywin marvelled, lips twisting into a true, rusty smile. “I suppose your sister is angry at the girl for spurning her brat of a son…if she knew what was transpiring under her very nose, I’m almost afraid of what she might do.”

“You and I don’t usually see eye to eye on such matters.” Jaime conceded wryly. “But in this, I have no doubt you are right.”

“Broker your peace, and retrieve Tyrion. For the sake of the survival of the Lannister name, I will forgive the Starks for their multiple insults - I do hope you understand that all of this will look like weakness to some, and we will need to repair that damage in any way possible.” Tywin warned after a moment. Jaime winced, knowing the lengths his father would go to, for the sake of securing the reputation of the Lannister name.

“But - my son wants to marry the eldest daughter of Lord Stark, and so he shall - this I swear to you. Once the wedding is over, he will retire immediately to the West with his Lady Wife. When the time is right, he will rule as the Lord of Casterly Rock. Do we have an agreement?”

“Aye.” Jaime nodded, trying to ignore the fact that he had just made a very dangerous deal with his Lord Father.

“You will take ten thousand men East with you.” Tywin commanded.

“I’m not sure how that achieves a peaceful resolution…” Jaime began to protest.

“And I’m not sure you realize how foolish it is to wander towards an angry she-wolf without arming yourself.” Tywin said calmly. “Just because you’ve lost your head, doesn’t mean you have to lose your life. Broker your peace, but do it on your terms.”

Nodding unhappily, Jaime turned to go, only to be surprised by the touch of his father’s hand upon his cheek. “I need you to become the man you were always meant to be. And if it takes a woman to do what I couldn’t, then so be it.”

At a loss for words, the younger man stared at his father, unsure of how to respond. Tywin was not an affectionate man, and was not wont to display emotions of any sort other than displeasure. As a child, Jaime had always turned to his Uncle Kevan when he wanted even a semblance of fondness.

“I loved your Lady Mother. I loved her so much that when she died, a part of me died with her.” Tywin admitted haltingly, withdrawing his large, dry hand from his son’s face. “While she lived, she…made me a better man. I hope this woman - this Sansa - I hope she can do for you, a tenth of what Joanna did for me.”

Gaping at his father’s rare moment of honesty, Jaime found himself telling Tywin the truth that had been in his heart these last months. “She already does. Sansa has made me remember what honour means. She’s brought the best part of me back to myself.”

Nodding, the scion of House Lannister turned back to the Stag carcass laying stiff on the table; flies were already gathering overhead, waiting for their turn with the dead flesh.

Taking his father’s silence for dismissal, Jaime showed himself out, heaving a sigh of relief as he did so.

***

With his numbers greatly increased, Jaime found to his impatience that his rate of travel had significantly slowed, as compared to when he had only forty odd men with him. The army - for that was what it was - moved in massive columns, slowly picking their way on foot through the land. Every few hours, a stop was required in order to ensure the men remained rested, and ready for a fight.

It was all Jaime could do not to dig his heels into his horse and ride on ahead. When he thought back on his conversation with his father, while the outcome had been in his favour, he should have put his foot down when the Lord of Casterly Rock had demanded he take such a number of soldiers with him. Surely, when Catelyn Stark saw the assembled host at her sister’s door, she would not take it in the spirit of peace.

On the third week, as he approached Riverrun, a Royal Herald burst through the camp screaming fresh news from the Capital.

“King Robert is Dead! Long Live King Joffrey!” the young messenger screamed, racing through the camp. “King Robert is Dead! Long Live King Joffrey!”

So his son ruled the Seven Kingdoms. What, if anything, was he supposed to feel, or do with that information, outside of an every-increasing fear for Sansa’s wellbeing? Joffrey had made it clear he had little patience for her rejection of his hand.

As for the death of the King, Jaime had no love for Robert, and it was all one to him which King sat on that throne. After all, Joffrey was simply a younger, crueller version of his predecessor. He supposed he could have felt a measure of guilt - his place, after all, was to guard the King.

That chapter of his life however, was already beginning to feel as if it were already closed. No doubt, his father would see to it that Joffrey release him from his cloak immediately, perhaps with even greater ease now, than if Robert still lived.

At the end of it, he had taken his oaths both because of some childish notion of honour and glory, and because Cersei had wanted him close at hand, and never married to any other woman. Both his appointment to Kingsguard, and his everlasting bond with Cersei had resulted in disaster, and Jaime found to his surprise, that he was relieved at last to be walking away.

As the days passed however, more tidings continued to trickle in, at first in whispers, and then in loud declarations. Every day, everything got worse, much worse.

The Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, had been branded a traitor. Lord Stark had thought to seize the kingship for Stannis, by publicly branding the Crown Prince a bastard borne of filthy incest. Though Jaime found himself shaken that his secret was fast becoming common knowledge, he hid it well.

Other rumours said Ned Stark had tried to take the crown for himself, but those, Jaime dismissed immediately. The Northman had every chance to seize the throne for himself the day Mad Aerys died, but instead, he had turned away from it. It was unlikely he would have tried winning the Iron Throne now.

Ultimately however, when it came to rumours, those he could ignore, he insisted to himself.

There were always rumours, always inaccurate pieces of news that drifted through Westeros through the unreliable tongues of men, and there always would be. It was only when another messenger arrived and presented himself directly to the Commander of Tywin Lannister’s forces, that Jaime found himself being forced to face the ugly truth.

“Lord Stark languishes in the Black Cells of the Red Keep,” the messenger informed Jaime, who could do nothing to hide his dismay.

“What of his daughters?” he asked, green eyes wide with panic, grasping tightly at the messengers shoulders. He must have looked utterly mad, he thought, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “What of the Lady Sansa?”

“I don’t know My Lord…” the boy - for he wasn’t more than a boy - trembled in his hold. “All I know is that King Joffrey will pass his judgement soon, on what is to happen to the Hand. The rumours say he will be sent to the Wall…”

“Seven Hells!” Jaime swore, shoving the messenger away in his frustration and anger. “When the Seven gave out brains, Eddard asked for honour instead, and now…”

“There’s more My Lord,” the wretched child stuttered. “Robb Stark has declared himself the King in the North…he has gathered his bannermen, and they are riding South as we speak, to reclaim Lord Stark, and to avenge the insult upon the North…”

“The long and short of it is that we are at war with the North.” Jaime said flatly. “The Starks and their allies are our enemies. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I only know what I’ve been told My Lord…”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not a Lord.” The knight ran his hands through his hair, feeling as if he had gone insane. Turning to look the messenger in the eye, he all but begged now. “Are there not even rumours, or whispers of what has befallen the Stark girls?”

At last, the messenger boy seemed to understand the basis of Jaime’s despair as he gazed upon the older man. A sympathetic light began to shine through his pale eyes. “I think…I think Lady Arya has been captured, and is currently being held in her chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Lady Sansa however…the maids and stewards all say the same. She struggled against the Hound, and he…he killed her as she ran. All the Northmen have themselves been killed or executed at the hands of the Gold and Red Cloaks.”

The Slayer probably tried to fight back, all while still trying to honour the rules of her calling - that is, that she should not use her strength to slay a living person. Likely, once Sandor realized he was up against a true opponent, he would have employed all of his not-inconsiderable strength to subdue her…and she had probably let him.

Had she been scared or had she submitted to her fate with fortitude, he wondered distantly. Perhaps she had realized her mistake at the very last, as the Hound ended her. Shutting his eyes, Jaime said in a dead voice, “Leave me. Tell my men no one is to come in here without my permission.”

“Aye…” the boy hesitated. “I’m sorry ser. For bringing you tidings as such.”

“You weren’t the idiot Lord who killed his daughter, because you wanted to uphold some foolish notion of truth and honour.” Jaime said bitterly. “Leave. Now.”

Alone, the knight sank onto his pallet with his face buried in his hands.

It was over. All of it. Jaime could feel every breath scraping down his throat as if he were swallowing sand. The tempest in his mind was already receding, he found. His heart, far from hurting, felt strangely numb as he considered that he would never see his love again, never run his fingers through Sansa’s hair, never hear her voice or listen to her silly quips as she battled her foes.

Never again would he kiss her soft lips, or gaze into her trusting eyes. If he harboured any secret hope that one day, they would live as man and wife, and that he would father any children with her, all that too, was gone.

Forcing himself to focus, the knight looked down at the sword strapped to his side. That was all he was left with now. War, violence, death…

Outside, the men were waiting for his direction, and somewhere, his father, no doubt, was moving his pieces as if the Seven Kingdoms were a massive game of Cyvasse.

Sansa’s embrace was lost to him, but War had come to take him in her bloody arms instead. Any illusion he thought he had of choice, had like all the rest of his dreams and hopes, crumbled away to nothing.

Clambering to his feet, Jaime gathered his wits and strode out of his tent. If he were very lucky, some soldier’s sword would find him, and find him soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2018. May GRRM publish his damn book this year.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned seals his own fate.  
> Another deal is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Canon compliant events ahead  
> Warning: AU stuff happening  
> Note: Don't hate me after this chapter + next chapter will be posted as well

Sansa was hungry.

But she was always hungry these days, she thought idly as she wandered the streets of the city, hugging its shadowed alleys and hidden warrens. Not only that, but she was dirty, and she was certain there were fleas in her hair.

It was strange to think that hunger was once something that happened to other people, Sansa recalled. In the past days however, ever since she had escaped the Red Keep, hunger had become her sole and constant companion, though in all fairness, it was something she had learned to keep at bay rather easily.

What would Maester Luwin think, if he knew that she was using her extraordinary speed and agility to filch meat pies from the vendors in the market? She moved so quickly, the store owners didn’t even noticed that their wares had been taken from under their noses.

At first, the notion of stealing food seemed so alien and foreign to her. It was immoral, and wrong, and hadn’t her own father meted out harsh punishments against thieves back in Winterfell?

But hunger, Sansa learned, made people do things that wouldn’t necessarily do, and in all frankness, she had no real wish to sit and think too deeply upon her actions. When she wasn’t trying to fill her stomach, the Slayer’s attention was divided between dodging Gold Cloaks and Lannister men alike.

That, and trying to think of a way to get to her father and her sister in the castle, all while looking for safe haven to rest her eyes for a few hours at a time. It was a good thing she didn’t need very much sleep, and hadn’t since she became the Slayer. And it was a good thing that she found plenty of things to take her frustrations out on once the sun dipped below the horizon. Who knew vampires were good for anything?

“The Hand is a traitor,” the whispers about town told her. “Lord Stark branded Joffrey a bastard, and tried to take the throne for himself”

“That’s not true,” others argued. “Joffrey is a bastard. You know he’s the Kingslayer’s son. Lord Stark was trying to place Stannis, our rightful King, on the Iron Throne.”

How quickly everything had changed, Sansa marvelled. All it had taken was for Robert to die, before everything went spectacularly to chaos. Distractedly, she wondered what Jaime would say in the face of all these whispers, before mentally chastising herself for even thinking of him.

It was almost ironic to think that the secret she kept for the Kingslayer’s sake, the secret she had been so honoured to have been entrusted with…

That very same secret was what was ruining her father’s good name, and which had relegated Lord Stark to the deepest dungeons of the Red Keep. That very same secret was why Arya was currently imprisoned, at the mercy of the Queen and her monster of a son Joffrey.

Rationally, Sansa knew she ought to hate the Lannister twins - it was their indiscretions that had roused her father’s voice, in defence of his friend’s legacy. Yet…the same reasons that had caused her to accept their choices, they still resonated with her. Cersei had married a man who thought nothing of striking her in the presence of others, and Jaime had loved his sister too much to abandon her to the despair of her life with Robert.

But it was so much worse than that, she thought as she gazed at the throngs of people that surrounded her.

Sansa still loved Jaime. Not a moment went by where she didn’t think of him, didn’t miss him, didn’t feel as if she would rather die than envision a future where she never saw him ever again.

What kind of person did that make her? What would her own father think of her?

Shaking her head, the Slayer turned her thoughts back to the impossible task of rescuing her father and her sister. It was the only thing she had left, and to dwell on anything else was foolishness.

“They killed Lady Sansa,” she heard a woman telling another as she walked through the Street of Flour. “Heard they gutted her like a fish. Good riddance I say.”

“My sister who works in the kitchens of the keep. They say she fucked half the Kingsguard.” someone else added to Sansa’s chagrin. “Spent her nights coming in and out of their quarters. Everyone knows.”

Fucking half the Kingsguard seemed a bit excessive - where would she have even found the time?

“What of her sister?” Sansa found herself asking, faking nonchalance as she picked through a basket of stale bread. “I heard Lord Stark had two daughters.”

“My sister says the girl’s still kept in silks. Not for long I’d wager,” the second woman laughed cruelly. “I say kill all the traitors. These lands have seen enough hardship - no need to add to it.”

As the women wandered away, Sansa fought to hide her disgust at the smallfolk’s callous regard for her sister’s life. Even if her father had been a traitor, Arya was no more than a child.

“If you’re not buying, take your hands off my wares.” the shopkeeper grunted in her direction, studying her dirty face and stained clothing. Just as well, Sansa thought as she hurried away - a patrol of Gold Cloaks were marching in the direction of the bread seller, and she had no inclination to stay.

Darting about the alleys, Sansa eventually found herself among a number of shadowy archways, far enough away from the crowds she could breathe a sigh of relief…that is, until a large meaty hand found her, and shoved her against the wall.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this eh?” slurred the hulking figure who had pinned her shoulder against the dirty brick, his breath reeking of ale and vomit. Sansa fought hard not to void the contents of her own stomach as she breathed in his stench.

“Let go of me.” she warned.

“I don’t think so,” he leered as his other hand boldly reached to paw at her breasts. Deftly, Sansa reached up and caught his wrist, warding him off with ease.

Frowning, her assailant released her shoulder and struck her across her face. Cheek stinging, Sansa whipped a glare towards the brute as she drove her knee into his groin.

Hard.

Falling to his knees in agony, both hands clutching at his manhood, her would-be raper shrieked, “You fucking cunt!”

“I really hate that word.” Sansa spat as she kicked him in his ribs, a blow which forced him to fall backwards in a howl of pain. Satisfied that he would live, she was about to walk away when a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows.

“You should kill him.” Tomas observed, ambling towards her. “Once he gets up, he’ll just find some other girl to ravish.”

“I don’t kill the living.” Sansa drew her sword. “Only demons. Like you.”

“I’ve never raped anyone.” Tomas said, reaching down and dragging the moaning, wretched brute up to his feet by the scruff of his neck.

“You’ve drained them.” Sansa stated, still remembering the taste of iron on her tongue from his stolen kiss.

“You’re not wrong there, but it is only in accordance with my nature to do so. Me and mine, we usually prey on the cutthroats, the rapers, and those who would hurt the weak…there’s quite an abundance of all three in the Capital.” Tomas tugged at the drunken man’s hair, baring the man’s neck. Though the brute struggled, he could not break free from the fiend’s grasp.

“Yes, I’ve heard all about your noble intentions.” Sansa advanced on the vampire, wondering how she could rescue the raper in Tomas’s arms…and if she even wanted to.

“Don’t get me wrong. When I get hungry, I occasionally _do_ just grab the first morsel that comes along.” Tomas smiled genially. “But what is the death of one innocent, compared to the thousands we protect?”

The Slayer looked upon the vampire in revulsion. “You think you’re a God yourself. It’s almost as if you imagine that the lives you take are mere sacrifices made for the sake of your blessings.”

“Perhaps.” Tomas mused. “Tell me, have the Seven or the Old Gods even once answered your prayers? In that I think, I have surpassed any of the Gods.”

Casually, he cracked the terrified drunk’s neck, putting an end to the man’s misery. Sansa flinched, but to her chagrin she did find herself particularly sorry for what had just occurred. Unceremoniously, Tomas allowed the corpse to fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

“I started out today, to tell you that I would offer you the services of my men for the sake of retrieving your father and your sister, in return for an alliance. The offer continues to stand even now, though it seems I may be a little late.” The vampire said in a strangely gentle tone. “Slayer, they’re bringing your father to the Sept of Baelor as we speak. The King is ready to pass his judgement…you should hurry.”

For a moment, the young woman did not immediately comprehend the words Tomas was saying to her.

“Slayer - the Sept of Baelor…” he prompted again, no longer smiling.

Sheathing her weapons, Sansa turned and sprinted off, towards the sun-lit street, where she watched as a mass of humanity thronged as one towards the Great Sept. Excited whispers and fevered chattering proved that the vampire had not been lying – the Hand of the King was being brought towards the Sept, to receive the King’s judgement.

Impatiently, Sansa hoisted herself onto a rooftop and over the heads of everyone on the street, where she began to race in the same direction every living soul in the Capital was travelling towards. The moment she arrived at the edges of the large square, she lifted the cowl of her tattered cloak over her auburn hair, in order to better obscure her distinctive features. Plunging into the crowds on the ground, she began to wend her way towards the front, where she could see figures gathering.

The closer they got, the faster her heart began to beat. Cersei, Joffrey, Pycelle and Ilyn Payne – the King’s Justice – they were all present. And so was Arya.

Garbed in a dainty Southron-styled dress, with her dark hair styled into elaborate twists, Sansa would not have recognized her sister, but for the look of impotent anger stamped upon her small, pale face. Arya’s eyes burned with hatred as she glared in the direction of Cersei and Joffrey; Meryn Trant’s calloused hands were wrapped around her shoulders, ensuring that there was no room for escape or otherwise.

Aside from Trant’s death grip on the girl, there were no other hints of mistreatment that she could see on Arya’s person, Sansa thought attempting to comfort herself as she settled behind the statue of Baelor.

The crowds began to part like a great wave, and a hush fell over the square. Climbing nimbly onto the elevated pedestal of the statue, Sansa watched as her father was led in chains into the square. The man looked as unkempt as she had ever seen him. Dirty matted hair and fishbelly-pale skin betrayed the poor conditions of Ned Stark’s capitivity, the hints of which raised a white hot rage within the Slayer’s chest.

As the man drew close, he looked up, and his eyes met Sansa’s own. Judging from the way he gazed at her, as if he were gazing upon a ghost, doubtless, he had also been misled into thinking she’d been purged along with all his men.

There was a moment of such hope on his countenance, but she watched as it extinguished before her eyes, as his gaze found Arya just up ahead.

Turning to an unseen member of the crowd, her father whispered something inaudible to her ears.

Carefully tugging at her cloak to ensure she remained hidden, Sansa watched as they dragged Lord Stark onto the very steps of the Sept, whereupon his stare settled on a furious Arya. Bowing his head, Ned knelt down.

“I am Eddard Stark. Lord of Winterfell. And Hand of the King. I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of Gods and Men. I betrayed the faith of my King and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold I plotted to murder his son.... and seize the Throne for myself.”

The crowd roared once more, and Sansa found that she could no longer breathe. Not really. So high was her fury, at the fact that they had coerced her father to confess to such a dishonourable deed…

“Let the high Septon and Baelor the Blessed, bear witness to what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, by the Grace of all his gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” Her father concluded heavily.

“As we sin... so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of gods and men. The gods are just but beloved Baelor taught us that they can also be merciful. What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?”

It was Pycelle, dog that he was. It was the fucking Maester, to whom she was supposed to have absolute trust in.

Joffrey smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

“My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile,” he paused.

That was fine, the Slayer decided. Let them speak as they wish in the Capital. Once her Father was North, they would raise their banners and call to account...

“But she has the soft heart of a woman. As long as I am your King, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!”

“No!” someone screamed, though it was drowned out by the crowd. It was her own voice, she realized even as she raised herself fully, allowing her cowl to fall away.

Fingers closed over her forearm, pulling insistently at her. Barely sparing a glance, she flung the stranger's hand off with ease.

Ilyn Payne raised a sword and began to approach Ned's kneeling figure - her father's sword, as a matter of fact. Sucking in a deep breath, the Slayer jumped far and fast towards the steps where they held her family. Again, Ned Stark’s eyes met her own. This time, they widened in alarm at the sight of his daughter’s approach. 

Out the corner of her eye, she registered that Cersei was pleading with Joffrey to change his mind, even as she gestured frantically at Meryn Trant to lead a struggling and sobbing Arya away. The King's eyes were fixed on her however, in a mixture of fear and shock.

Whatever terrors he saw in her face would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life, though Sansa would never know it, or be comforted by that knowledge.

All she would think upon later, was that she was always going to be too late. Ilyn Payne brought Ice down in a deadly arc, ending Eddard Stark's life with sickening finality.

Howling in a voice that was not her own, but the voice of every Slayer in the line of Slayers, Sansa drew her weapons and would have slashed at her father's executioner, had something very hard not struck her across the back of her head, sending her sprawling beside her father's headless body.

"Again!" someone shouted. Pycelle.

Before she could raise her body, the same hard object hit her once more...

At which point, Sansa, very mercifully, knew no more.

 

***

The first thing she thought as she came to, was how very hard her bed felt. Blinking, Sansa took a moment before she remembered what it was she had just witnessed, and what had happened as she attempted to murder Ilyn Payne in cold blood for what he had done.

Pushing herself to a seated position, her snarl died on her lips as immediately, she spied Arya laying on large bed before her, still and unmoving.

“She’s asleep.” a woman’s voice said, as Sansa scrambled forwards in mindless panic. Reaching out, she tried to shake her sister awake but to no avail. Looking over her shoulder, she found herself staring into familiar green eyes.

No...not quite familiar.

“Why won’t she wake up?” Sansa demanded.

“The girl was hysterical, so I had Pycelle administer Milk of the Poppy to help her sleep.” Cersei stood up from where she had been seated, flanked by two Lannister soldiers armed with crossbows. “A small mercy, in a day where there has been none.”

The five of them were in an ornately furnished room. Large windows and beautiful brocades decorated the lush space.

The Queen’s chambers, Sansa realized.

“Why?” Sansa asked. “Why show us mercy at all?”

“You must know that Ned’s death wasn’t what we…” Cersei started, looking almost…guilty.

“Why?” the Slayer insisted, taking a step in the Queen’s direction. Immediately, the two guards raised their crossbows, pointing the bolts not at Sansa, but at a helpless, sleeping Arya.

Cersei blinked very slowly. “Jaime’s been captured by your brother. If we kill your sister, my brother’s life is forfeit.”

Hearing his name felt like a blow to her gut. Paling rapidly, Sansa reached out and braced herself against a bedpost.

“Ah. So my spies were not lying when they told me…” Cersei’s lips twisted in a small, bitter smile.

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” Sansa shook her head.

Cersei turned to her guards and with a wave, dismissed them. Alone, the women regarded each other uneasily.

“Pycelle told me many things. He told me what you are, what you’re capable of…what I don’t understand is why you didn’t strike sooner. Take back your family, your father while you could.” the Queen said.

“That traitorous, decrepit, _lecherous_ old man.” Sansa laughed mirthlessly, pulling herself together. “My calling prevents me from using my strength against the living.”

“Yet you would have killed Ilyn Payne.”

The Slayer said nothing, refusing to acknowledge that yes, she would have killed him, and no, she would not have lost sleep over it. 

Moreover, she doubted that Cersei would want to hear that Sansa would have cheerfully cleaved Joffrey’s head off his shoulders in that moment, nevermind that he was Jaime’s firstborn son. The boy was a monstrous thing, worse even than Tomas. 

“You have all this power, yet you refuse to use it because some old men told you that you couldn’t.” the Queen looked at her in wonder. “Do you know what I could do with power such as yours?”

“Where is my Septa? What did you do with her?” Sansa asked, uninterested in the Queen’s foolish hunger for more power she couldn’t have.

“What do you think? Joffrey had her executed. He would have executed both you and your sister if I hadn’t told him that you’re both worth more as hostages.” Cersei lifted her chin. “If Arya dies, Robb Stark will kill Jaime, and your brother will never bend the knee.”

“I can’t imagine Joffrey giving a damn what happens to his _uncle_.” the younger woman spat.

“No, he doesn’t.” Cersei said simply. “But my father and I do.”

Sansa’s voice took on a note of impatience. “Why does everyone in the city think I’m dead?”

“When we couldn’t find you, Joffrey and I ordered for it to be known that you had been killed by the Hound. It wouldn’t do for the Crown to appear so weak, that we could not capture, nor dispense with a mere chit of a girl.” Cersei explained calmly. “Furthermore, reports of your death convinced your father that we would absolutely execute your sister if he didn’t renounce his own words concerning Joffrey’s legitimacy.”

“You’re a bad person.” Sansa informed the Queen bluntly. The other woman didn’t so much as falter now. “I suppose you’ll have to concoct some other lie now, as to why I materialized at the Sept.”

“All everyone else saw was a madwoman rushing to Ned Stark’s defence.” Cersei shrugged, slowly closing the distance between them. “Right now, The King thinks you’ve been thrown in the Black Cells.

“Sansa, your brother will never bend the knee. Not now that we have killed your father. And Joffrey would never give up your sister for my brother. You are my best hope to deliver Jaime back to safety. Back to me.”

“You’re mad. If you think I would betray my brother…”

“I think you love _my_ brother, and I think you’d do anything to save him from the same fate my son meted out to Lord Stark.” Cersei stated. “Tell me, what has Jaime revealed to you? Tell it true child.”

“Everything. All the dirty secrets the both of you shared, all the crimes you committed,” Sansa stated bitterly. “He kept my secrets as I kept his.”

“Everything…and yet I can see it in your eyes, you still want Jaime.” the Queen breathed, marvelling at the Slayer.

“You cannot truly think this is the best plan to get him back?” Sansa asked, because the older woman was right. The thought of Jaime in her brother’s furious grasp was causing her stomach to lurch unpleasantly.

“Do you think I wanted this?” Cersei asked, her hands fisting and un-fisting by her side. “Your brother’s demands had been simple. He would give us Jaime, in return for your Father. Except for the fact that the damned raven arrived just as Joffrey issued his orders…and now there’s nothing to be done, except…”

“If I refuse?” Sansa murmured, letting her gaze fall to her slumbering sister.

“If you refuse, I will kill Arya with my own two hands.” Cersei said without hesitation. “If Jaime dies, I will have her fed alive to the palace hounds. Her life means nothing to me. Do not for a _second_ think that what you feel for Jaime, compares to how much I love him. Do not fool yourself into thinking the infatuation he has for you even compares to what my brother and I had, and will always have.”

Moving to stand beside her sister, Sansa, stroked Arya’s forehead gently.

“Father’s last words to me, was a plea to protect you.” she said quietly, before leaning down and dropping a kiss on the girl’s forehead.

Turning back to the Queen, Sansa watched as a war of emotions played out across the woman’s face.

“She’ll be safe, as long as you keep your end of the bargain.” the older woman drew a leather pouch out of the folds of her dress and held it out to Sansa. “You will have gold for your travels, a horse and weapons, anything and everything you need…”

“I need you to leave us in peace.” Sansa growled, reluctantly pulling away from Arya. Snatching the gold from Cersei’s hands, she glowered at the Queen.

“My men are outside with your weapons. They will take you to the stables.” the older woman informed her stiffly.

“Won’t they tell his Grace that I still live?” Sansa asked, stalking towards the doors.

“I ensured my guards are as mute and illiterate as Ilyn Payne himself.” Cersei said almost proudly now, seeming to ignore the monstrous implications of her admission. “I’m not an idiot.”

“You are, if you think your son will make a better King than your husband.” Sansa hissed, and left the only daughter of Tywin Lannister standing in the middle of her chambers.

***

Night had fallen by the time she was riding towards the Mud Gate. As the mare trotted quickly upon the cobbled road, Tomas melted out of the shadows. Easily, he kept pace with her horse.

“I’m sorry for what happened to your father.” he said quietly. “Truly.”

“You’re a demon. You don’t know what that word even means.” Sansa said flatly, refusing to look down at him.

“Believe me when I tell you that it is possible to be both a vampire and a man all at once.” the vampire said, reaching out a hand to stroke her mount carefully. The horse whinnied softly in response, tilting its massive head towards Tomas as it trotted. “I’ve never told you how I was turned.”

The Slayer replied coldly. “I suspect you’ll tell me anyway since I can’t get you to stop talking.”

He cast her a wry look.

“I was a soldier of the Faith Militant, sworn to a life of virtue, charity and chastity. But there was a woman. A Septa. I gave up the cloth for her, and she for me.” his gaze was faraway. “Her eyes were as blue as yours, her hair as pale as the morning sun. King Maegor agreed with me…or at least, I assume he did, since he took her and ravished her, and threw her back onto the streets the moment he was finished with her.”

Looking down at him, Sansa hated that even in the depths of her own, all encompassing grief, she felt a stirring of something that felt very much like sympathy in her belly.

At the same time, she processed his words with something like horrified fascination - the vampire before her had lived a long life, much longer than she could have imagined.

“I wandered into the night, drunk and screaming, looking to fight anything that would kill me.” Tomas continued. “That was the night I met my sire. He took me and he turned me…but I never stopped being…me. I had hoped that the grief would die with my old life, but it didn’t. So. I spend my existence now, with those I call my brothers, trying to make a way for everyone that wasn’t born into a noble house with a noble name.”

“Pretty story.” Sansa reined in her steed as the Mud Gate came in sight. “Is there a point to it?”

“You’ve become one of us, Sansa Stark. You’ve been betrayed by those who should have protected you.” Tomas stroked the velvety smooth muzzle of her horse. “Sansa, for your sake, I will abandon my plans for another century more. We can take the castle tonight, and take back your sister. We can make them pay for Eddard Stark’s life in blood. Every last one of them. You can even take your time on the Kingslayer’s son if you so chose…”

The vampire stopped speaking and glanced up at her, silently acknowledging that he had just taken a gross misstep.

Nevermind Joffrey. Myrcella and Tommen…they were Jaime’s beloved children, and more than that, they were innocent, sweet souls, who would never dream of hurting another. The thought of their little bodies drained and discarded made the Slayer queasy.

“Leave. Now.” Sansa drew her cowl up, before reaching for the reins of her horse once again. “Or I swear…I will kill you. The Slayer you bested weeks ago - she’s dead. There’s only me to contend with, and I’m weary of your words.”

“Nay sweet girl…” Tomas brushed at her bare hand, sounding regretful as he looked up at her with nothing but sincerity in the depths of his eyes. Even she could not find it in her soul to doubt his honesty just then. “You’re still in there. They can’t kill that spark that makes you who you are. And if you could kill me, you would have already done so.”

“I like a good story, and I hate being rude.” Sansa retorted.

“I look forwards to the day our paths cross again Slayer.” Tomas stepped away, smiling sadly at her.

Turning from the vampire, Sansa dug her heels into the sides of her horse and raced her way out of King’s Landing, and out into the Crownlands, with only one name burning in her mind.

_Jaime._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime spends some time with his thoughts.

_Sansa waited for him in a sunlit grove, staring up at the trees in silent admiration and simple joy. Hearing his approach, she turned to him eagerly._

_“Took you long enough,” she smiled easily, reaching for his hand as she drew him towards her._

_“I did my best.” he murmured, tipping her chin to drop a feather light kiss on her lips. “I kept getting waylaid.”_

_“You’re here now,” she whispered, slinging a strong arm around his neck as his fingers loosened the intricate knots in her hair, causing it to spill free. With his other hand, he pressed against the small of her back so that she fit snugly against his own shape._

_“I missed you,” he told her, marvelling at the softness of her cheek as he ran his hands over her face and down past her jaw. “I missed you every day, so much it felt like it actually hurt sometimes.”_

_“It wasn’t easy without you.” she admitted as he undid the ties of her dress. “Especially when they killed my father.”_

_“What?” Jaime paused in his ministrations. “What did you say?”_

_“They killed my father before my eyes,” she said, reaching up to undo her own clothing now. There was a dark stain spreading steadily across the silk. “And my sister. Though her, they strung up.”_

_“Sansa, no…no, no, no…” Jaime stepped away and watched as the silk fell from her body, revealing a bloody gash which ripped across her torso._

_“What’s wrong Jaime?” Sansa asked, a puzzled expression in her eyes. “Are you well?”_

_“Please no.” he sank to his knees as the Slayer’s eyes flashed yellow and her face distended._

_“You don’t look very well,” she said through a mouthful of fangs as she approached him. The gaping wound would not stop bleeding. Overhead, the sun was long gone, replaced with a scarlet sky. “I can fix that for you if you’d let me. There’s no pain here. Nothing hurts. There is only freedom…”_

_Strong hands cupped his jaw as sharp teeth scraped at his jugular. “You’ll feel a little pinch…”_

The world jolted into sharp relief as Jaime’s eyes snapped open.

It was strange to say it, but he was almost relieved to find himself in the cage they kept him in, strapped to the cart they used specifically to cart him from camp to camp. The accommodations weren’t particularly comfortable, considering his wrists were still manacled, and his clothing was as soiled as soiled could be. If he could still smell himself, doubtless, he’d reek of shit and piss. All his own of course.

Nonetheless, he was glad to be out of the nightmare he had found himself in.

Sleep had once been a refuge, and every once in a while, it still was. Most nights however, most nights found him trapped in horrific tableaus he couldn’t easily extract himself from.

“Sweet dreams Kingslayer?” one of his gaolers asked, though there was no rancour in his tone. Briden was young, and this was his first war.

The boy, like so many of his peers, had bonded himself for the promise of three meals and a place to sleep. Being marshalled into battle had not, in fact, been one of his ambitions.

It had been weeks, months perhaps, since Jaime had been taken, and there wasn’t very much to do in captivity, outside of getting to know his guardsmen. That is, when he wasn’t providing useless, sarcastic quips at those who chose to taunt him. The only one who seemed open to providing any sort of conversational diversion was the young Norrey boy Briden.

“The usual. Naked women, fine wine…you know how it is,” Jaime forced a grin.

Briden flushed.

“Come now, a young man like you, with a hundred camp followers milling about…yet still you blush like a maiden.” Jaime smirked with a little more feeling now.

“There is a girl. Mansy.” the boy confessed softly. Unwisely or not, the younger man had developed a strange friendship with the most valuable prisoner the Northerners held. “After this is over, I want to take her home.”

“Your parents won’t mind that she’s…” Jaime asked curiously.

“They won’t know. I’ll make up some story and that’ll be that.” he shook his head. The son of Tywin Lannister found himself almost envious at the freedoms the smallfolk enjoyed. “I haven’t seen her in two nights however. She promised she’d meet me, but she’s gone, and no one knows where.”

The knight’s heart sank as he considered the boy’s words.

“Listen to me Briden,” his voice turned serious. “If you see her again after sunset, do not go to her.”

“Why would you say that?” the soldier asked defensively.

“Just…listen.” the man said tiredly.

“She’s probably just hung back for a bit. I hope she isn’t gone for good,” Briden sounded miserable. “The men told me it’s not uncommon for people to disappear during these campaigns.”

“It’s not.” Jaime agreed, thinking of the men he lost between King’s Landing and the Riverlands, and out of those, the ones who came back with a mouth full of sharp teeth. “Briden, take care that you’re armed, should you ever see her again.”

“I would never hurt her.” The boy soldier sniffed in disdain, and they spoke no more, ending what little diversion Jaime had at this disposal.

***

When first he had been captured, as was expected, the knight had found himself the subject of endless questioning. Often, it was Robb Stark himself who arrived in his cage, with that damnable wolf of his, demanding to know where Tywin’s forces were going, and what, likely, Joffrey would do next. It allowed Jaime a small measure of satisfaction to respond in genuine ignorance each and every time.

It was however, Catelyn Stark’s one visit that proved the worst. Perhaps it had been the sight of her blue eyes, swollen with unshed tears, or the fact that he saw so much of Sansa in her - he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he couldn’t bear the sight of her.

She had come to him almost immediately after the news of Ned Stark’s execution arrived. The tidings, which spread like Wildfire throughout the camp of the Northern host, almost caused Jaime to laugh aloud. There was no doubt in the knight’s mind that he had been captured rather than killed, because they had hoped to trade his life for Lord Stark’s. Nobody had counted on Joffrey being such a cunt – nobody ever did.

If he had never loved Sansa, if he hadn’t in fact, ridden out in the first place to broker for peace with Catelyn for the sake of her daughter, perhaps things would have been very different between the two of them. Instead, the moment they were alone, he found himself saying very quietly, “I am truly sorry for what you have lost.”

“You don’t know what that word even means.” She replied with a bitter laugh. “It’s because of you and your sister that I’ve lost my husband and my daughter.”

Jaime flinched, but found himself retorting, “If your husband hadn’t been so blinded by doing what he thought was the right thing, perhaps Sansa would still be alive today.”

“Don’t speak her name. Don’t you dare.” The woman spat.

“Why not?” he demanded, no longer caring to keep his silence. There was no point to it. He would either be put to death eventually by these people, or he would live long enough to return to the Capital, where the woman he loved would still be dead.

“I loved your daughter, almost since the day we left Winterfell. And she loved me. Sansa _loved_ me.” Jaime stopped speaking for a moment. The grief was too much, and it threatened to rob him of what composure he had. Taking a breathe, he continued. “I was riding for the Vale with the intention of trying to fix the mess you created when you took my brother. The both of us, we had such hopes...”

The woman stared wide-eyed at him like he had lost his mind.

“But your husband. He took it in his head to declare Joffrey a bastard…” Jaime shook his head. “And Sansa paid the price for his actions. So tell me again Lady Stark - by what right does the wolf have to judge the lion?”

“Do you take me for a fool? You were riding with an army in my father’s lands.” Catelyn pointed out heatedly.

“I was turning back to join my father when your son’s men fell upon us,” Jaime said quite patiently and honestly. “I offered to duel your son - and I would have allowed him to put an end to me. Yet here I sit, caged like an animal.”

Even now, he could not see Robb Stark besting him in a duel - not without him deliberately throwing the fight.

Catelyn picked a rock off the ground then. “l will kill you tonight, Ser. Pack your head in a box and send it to your sister.”

Jaime laughed as a trace of his old self surfaced. “Let me show you how. Hit me again, over the ear. And again and again. You're stronger than you look, it shouldn't take long.”

“That is what you want the world to believe, isn't it? That you don't fear death,” Catelyn’s voice trembled with something. Rage, disbelief…it was all one to him.

“Nay Lady Stark.” Jaime replied. “I fear going on now that my only hope for a better world is no more. I had given up on myself a long time ago. But your daughter…she gave me back something I thought I’d lost. All of it is gone now of course...so please, do as you will with me. I promise, I won’t struggle. I beg of you to just do it.”

Again, she looked upon him like he had gone utterly mad. Shaking herself as if from a stupor, she asked, “My son Bran. How did he come to fall from that tower?”

Jaime stared at her almost pityingly.

“Why do you need a confession? You have already passed your judgement. I can see it in your eyes. All that’s left now, is for you to carry out of the sentence.”

“What is wrong with you?” Catelyn asked, aghast.

“I would say anything if it meant you’d put me out of my misery dear Lady.” Jaime pressed on, knowing she was on the edge of lifting her improvised weapon, and badly wanting her to just get on with it.

The two remained frozen in time, until Catelyn allowed the rock to fall from her hands. “You mean it don’t you? You’re telling the truth. You actually loved my daughter.”

“What purpose would it serve for me to make up such a story?” he asked, slumping back against the pole they had bound him to. “Do you think I expect mercy from you? Sympathy?”

“You’ll receive neither from me. You loved her you say. Fine. Good. You will not die tonight, or even soon.” Catelyn's chin lifted as she gathered her skirts. “I want you to live and to suffer, with the knowledge that Sansa died because of _your_ treasonous deeds. And if you ever forget, I will be here to remind you, this I swear.”

“Then you have far more in common with Cersei than you realize. Never go for the kill when you can go for the pain.” Jaime replied resignedly as his eyes slid shut. After a moment, he added softly, “You should get some sleep. It’s going to be a long war.”

With a rustle of her skirts, the woman left him alone once again, with nothing but his thoughts for company. Even Jaime could appreciate Catelyn's cruelty in that.

***

He did not see Briden again for days after his last warning, leaving Jaime in the care of men who spent their time pretending that they had not in fact, drawn the short straw when they were made to guard the reeking Kingslayer.

It had been four days, to be exact, before he saw the boy again.

Jaime had already assumed it would be yet another dull afternoon as he sat in his cage, watching as everyone about him busied themselves with the business of war. It was far better for him to spend his energy studying each and every individual around him, than to allow his mind to wander, thought wander it did, against his will.

What would Tywin say, exactly, if he could see his son now? No doubt, first would come the tongue lashing for allowing Robb Stark to defeat him. Then would come the recriminations of how he had failed as a son.

And Cersei? She would simply echo what their father said, though likely, she would first try to murder every one in the camp for what they were subjecting him to. Perhaps in hindsight, he shouldn't have gone so easily on Ned Stark for what his wife had done when she took Tyrion. It wasn't as if it made a difference now...

Briden approached his cage, and gestured that he was to take over guardianship of their prisoner for the next few hours. Shrugging, the men acquiesced. Once they were out of sight, the soldier turned to Jaime, who saw the bruises on the side of his face.

"She came back." Jaime said flatly.

"Aye." the boy shivered. "She was much changed, and no longer my sweet Mansy…her face…”

"I expect she wanted a little more than your love this time."

Nodding, Briden looked towards the ground, filled both with fear and shame. “I ran.”

“Smart lad.” Jaime said approvingly, leaning forwards as far as he was able. “That was the best thing you could have done, trust me.”

“What was she?” Briden whispered, meeting his gaze.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is what you have to do the next time you see her.” Jaime stated. “You have to kill her.”

“I…” the boy stuttered. “How? She was so very strong…”

“Even the strongest of them cannot withstand a wooden spear through the heart. Or a blade through their throats.” the knight said. “Trust me on this.”

Worriedly, Briden turned away; the two of them sat in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

***

The young soldier returned the following day, pale and tired. As soon as he was able, he began to speak excitedly, babbling of the events that had taken place the previous night.

“You’ve killed your first vampire.” Jaime said approvingly.

“Vampire? But they’re just…they are aren’t they? Just stories?” the younger male asked, crouching down outside Jaime’s cage.

“Believe your own eyes boy.” the knight said, laughing in genuine pleasure. He couldn’t help it. It almost felt as if he was honouring the Slayer’s memory…

Another would already have been called, he realized, his cheer fading immediately. Likely, some new and hapless girl was already being carted towards the Capital.

“Do you think I should tell the others?” Briden asked hesitantly.

“Only if you want them to think you’ve lost your mind.” the older man said tiredly. “But yes. I do believe you should find a way to educate your fellows.”

“You’re not the man I thought you were Kingslayer.” the boy said admiringly.

Closing his eyes, Jaime leaned back, and said with despairing finality, “You’re not the only one who shares that sentiment, I’m sure.”

***

The night started like any other. He was given his supper - a poor stew of venison or some such meat - and a bit of watered-down ale, and allowed to finish his meal in peace. By any means, it was not a good stew, but it was what all the soldiers ate. The contents were nourishing, if not tasteless and greasy.

Wrapping his arms as best as he could about himself to stay warm, Jaime stared up at the stars, half dreading the arrival of sleep, and with it, dreams. The hours moved achingly slow, and he couldn’t help but wonder what Cersei was doing, and if she was happy…

“I’m here for the Kingslayer.”

Jaime’s gaze snapped towards the entrance to his cage.

“No one sees the Kingslayer except King Robb, or the Lady Stark, and you’re neither.” one guard said in a bored tone.

“You misunderstand.” the cloaked figure replied. “I wasn’t really asking…”

The slight figure landed a blow against the first guardsman’s belly, before driving an uppercut into the man’s jaw. The other soldier gaped at first, before finally, he found his senses and drew his sword

With breathtaking ease, the slim and hooded person disarmed the guard, before she - and it was absolutely a woman - landed a firm blow against the base of the man’s skull, sending him sprawling.

Certain that they were unconscious, the newcomer bent down and searched the two fallen figures, stripping one of them of his cloak in the process. It wasn’t long before she found what she was looking for - keys. Hurrying towards Jaime, she unlocked the gate and swung the door open, before stepping in hastily.

Despite his best efforts, the man still could not see her face in its entirety as she crouched by him, to release the manacles encircling his wrists.

“Come on.” the hooded figure urged, yanking him to his feet and shoving the guard’s thick cloak at him.

Snapping his mouth shut, he nodded and donned the cloak, drawing its cowl over his face. Together, they slunk towards the farthest edges of the camp, so as not to draw attention to themselves. Once they were a safe distance from the bright torches that encircled the camp, the woman broke into a run and he followed as closely as he could.

They ran for a short time, until they reached a hidden gully where Jaime found himself staring at a saddled horse tethered to a bough, awaiting only its riders.

“Let’s go.” the woman commanded, undoing the knots that secured the mount.

Unable to hold it in any longer, Jaime reached for her hand and stilled her movements.

“Sansa.” he stated aloud, uncertain if he was dreaming once again, or if he had finally lost his mind.

The woman froze before finally, she turned to look him full in the face. The world stopped spinning utterly for all of a second as his emerald eyes locked upon her blue ones in the dark. Hands twitching, she took a step towards him.

The knight found himself overwhelmed with the urge to sweep her body against his, if only to assure himself that she was here, and she was real.

Abruptly, shouts could be heard in the still night air.

“Get on,” she urged, shoving him just hard enough he stumbled very slightly.

Jaime began to smile. _This wasn’t a dream. Not in the slightest._

Spurred by an energy he hadn’t experienced in what felt like an eternity, the knight swung himself atop the beast. Quickly, Sansa followed and settled in front of him, before slapping the reins of her horse.

Back to front, they rode off into the night, his arms wrapped firmly around his entire world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright if y'all still reading this, thanks guys


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa rides through a land destroyed by war, for the sake of her sister and her lover.
> 
> Note: Next Chapter posted at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Long windedness exposition ahead...also, some anti-Robb sentiments.

The country was in absolute disarray.

Riding towards the Riverlands, Sansa tried her hardest to remain focused on her mission. Arya’s life depended on her, and likely, so did Jaime’s. Harbouring any illusions that her brother might spare Jaime would be a mistake. Considering what Joffrey did to their father, Sansa found herself praying that Robb continued to show restraint when dealing with the man she…

The man she continued to love, nevermind the wisdom in it.

It could be argued that Jaime had nothing to do with what Joffrey’s decision to execute Eddard Stark. Indeed, the decision was Joffrey’s and Joffrey’s alone, if Cersei's words and actions were to be trusted. However, Sansa rather doubted that her brother or even her mother were likely to make that distinction when it came time to pass judgement on their prisoner.

In a very short time, the Stark daughter had come to the uncomfortable conclusion that justice was a rare commodity, if even it existed. If there was any such thing, her father would not be dead. Lady, Mycah, even her Septa…they would all still be alive.

No matter, try as she might to focus on her task at hand, she found it impossible to ignore the bodies of the smallfolk hanging off the boughs of trees, or laid out in macabre piles on the ground. Most of the dead she found had been killed at the hands of the living. They had been murdered by soldiers who marched both in the name of the Lannisters and the Starks; this she gleaned from the tattered colours some of the corpses were wrapped in.

On top of the horrors of war, it came as no surprise to the Slayer to find that the blood-drinking population seemed to be thriving, and thriving well on the carnage and mayhem spreading through the land.

Over and over, as she rode through what appeared to be husks of villages, she found her senses prickling with an intensity she found hard to ignore. Outside the city, where the air itself was not always heavy with a miasma of evil, it was all too easy to pinpoint pockets of the undead. Yellow eyes peered suspiciously at her over window ledges during the day, and at night, droves of bloodsucking fiends emerged from their nests, ready to pounce on unlucky stragglers in their path.

As much as she wanted to push ahead, Sansa found herself slaying as many demons as she could, as quickly as she could, night after night. Every morning as she climbed back onto her horse, she prayed fervently that she had not tarried too long, and cost either her sister or Jaime their lives.

Even if it were likely they could never be together, the thought of the knight dying at her brother’s hand was far too much to bear. Not after everything that had already transpired.

But what could she do? She was still the Slayer, and it was her duty, like it or not, to rid the world of such parasites.

***

One afternoon, as she dozed fitfully under a tree, Sansa watched as her horse – which she had named Dawn – filled its belly with grass growing abundantly all around them. As the minutes passed, the young woman became uncomfortably aware that she was growing jealous of the beast. Would that she could survive on grass too, she considered…

Realizing she needed to eat something before she went completely mad, Sansa decided she would ride until she found food and proper lodging for the night. She was no good to anyone if she expired now.

The pouch Cersei had handed to her was only useful when she managed to find places that would accept gold in exchange for room and board. The farther she strayed from the capital, the less use Sansa found for the currency by her side. As Jaime had once predicted, having never had to hunt or gather, or even to start a fire, the Slayer found herself mostly in a state of constant hunger.

Climbing unto Dawn’s saddle, Sansa reached into her pocket and fished out the last of the blackberries she’d found a few miles back, and slowly savoured the tart fruit in her mouth, trying to pretend she was tasting Lemoncakes instead.

More than half a day later, long after she devoured a few mealy apples she found growing by the side of the road, the Slayer found herself staring hopefully at the entrance of a cheery inn. Tying Dawn off with the other mounts in the yard, Sansa strode eagerly through the doors of the establishment.

“Travelling alone love?” a portly lady clucked the moment she laid eyes on Sansa and on the weapons she openly carried. The proprietress, no doubt. “Not safe for a girl your age.”

Ducking her head, Sansa allowed the woman to usher her towards a table at the back of the sparsely populated dining room.

“I expect you’ll be wanting supper and a place to sleep tonight.” the woman smiled kindly, fetching her a pitcher of ale.

“Yes, please,” Sansa answered gratefully, drawing out a few coppers and sliding it across the cracked wooden tabletop. Previous lessons with brigands who thought to rob her in the night, taught the young woman not to be too free with the gold dragons she carried on her person. Nodding in satisfaction, the proprietress hurried off.

In her little corner, the Slayer took in the dining room. A small hearth crackled at the other end, beside which a minstrel tuned his lute. There had been a time when she had been obsessed with every singer that passed through Winterfell, she recalled wistfully. How many times had Lord Stark endured her constant begging, her incessant pleas to invite travelling musicians into the Great Hall…

Almost instinctively, Sansa’s thoughts drew back from the memory of her father. The wound was too new, the pain too fresh.

Forcing back her tears, for if she started crying now, she would surely drown in grief, the young woman forced herself to study the others who surrounded her.

Sipping at her weak ale, the Slayer assessed her fellow travellers, taking note of the ones whose gaze lingered too long on her, and dismissing the ones who looked too weary to even lift their fork. If any of the men were under the misapprehension that her _services_ were available for purchase, an unfriendly look appeared to dispel that perception.

Just as she was about to relax into her seat, certain now that she would be able to finish her supper without interruption, the back door burst open, and in poured a gaggle of women.

The five of them surveyed the room in bright-eyed glory, with dainty hands placed artfully on shapely hips. Lustrous curls in blonde, brunette and auburn trailed over alabaster smooth skin, brushing against ample bosoms barely concealed under low bodices.

All around, the menfolk seemed to perk up at the sight, cheered at the prospect of bedding down with ready and willing women…or at least, women who were ready and willing, depending on the coin they were able to afford.

Only the Slayer sat unmoved. In still silence, she studied the way the women flowed throughout the inn; she observed quietly, the manner in which the proprietress greeted each of them.

One of the girls spotted her unwavering stare, and sashayed slowly over to Sansa. Dusky skin and almond-shaped eyes betrayed her as girl from Lorath…for a moment, the Slayer’s mind flitted to a long ago dream, of a dead Lorathi Slayer from another age, hunting in the midst of a gilded ballroom.

The memory hurt.

“You’re looking a little lost,” she said in a low voice, running a finger down the Slayer’s arm. Sansa stopped the woman’s progress by grabbing at the pale hand touching her.

The vampire smiled at her, and continued breathily, “Oh. Would you look at that. Do I sense some interest? Must be lonely, being a woman on the road. Scary too, no doubt. I’m not picky you know…I promise, I don’t mind a bit of cunt from time to time…I can help you with that. Sweet girl like you…I could be whatever it is you need.”

“Mmm. I’m sure you can.” Sansa smiled a sharp smile of her own. “You girls come in here a lot?”

“Old Gwyn likes having a bit of colour in her fine establishment,” her companion gestured towards the owner of the inn, who was busying herself pouring ale for all her other guests. “We accommodate her best as we can.”

The Slayer fought the urge to be sick. Breathing in, the smile disappeared from her countenance as her gaze hardened. The vampire before her screamed in shock as Sansa’s grip tightened hard enough to break the bones in her hand.

Everything moved quickly after that. In a matter of seconds, five vampires surrounded her, snarling and growling even as the menfolk ran screaming from the dining room at the sight of the suddenly-not-quite beautiful demons. The minstrel however, continued to cower by the fire.

“I just wanted to have a nice meal, and sleep in a real bed for once.” Sansa sighed, drawing out a stake.

A scuffled ensued as the Slayer made short work of the demons. Once they were nothing more than piles of dust, she surveyed the catastrophic state of the dining room and said quite sympathetically to the lute player, “It’s safe now.”

“What are you?” he demanded in a coarse voice, betraying his fear of _her_.

“Someone who just saved your life.” Sansa muttered, and stalked towards the kitchen where she knew the owner was hiding. Sure enough, the woman faced her from behind a wooden table. One shaking hand clutched at a kitchen knife, the sharp point of which was pointed in the Slayer’s direction.

“You’ve been letting those vampires drain your guests.” she stated flatly. “You on the other hand...you rob their corpses, sell their horses and belongings, and keep all the gold. Did I guess right?”

The proprietress trembled.

“This food you have here,” Sansa walked over to a bubbling pot hanging over an open flame. “What manner of meat is in it?”

“What?” the other woman asked, not understanding the question.

“You had to dispose of the bodies of your victims somehow. Surely you aren’t surprised by my question.” the Slayer gazed hungrily at the hot stew. The woman continued to stare uncomprehendingly at her with wide, frightened eyes. Sansa tried again. “Have you been cooking human flesh?”

“It’s horse meat you witch!” the woman sounded horrified. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.” the Slayer grabbed a bowl and helped herself to the hot stew. “Madam, you’re going to want to run. Once I’ve eaten my supper, I plan to burn this place to the ground, and you don’t want to be here when that happens.”

“You can’t do that!” the woman screeched, summoning the courage to charge at her.

“Oh yes I can,” Sansa reached out and plucked the sharp knife from the woman’s sweaty hands. Lowering her voice to a growl, she added, “Get out of my sight.”

With one last hateful glare, the portly woman ran.

***

Wiping at her mouth and taking a swig of ale from the skein in her hands, Sansa sat atop her mount and watched as the inn collapsed under the weight of its own burning beams.

“I’ve got us some food that’ll last a few days, and a bit of ale…” she said to Dawn. “Guess its a straight road from here.”

Slapping the reins, the Slayer once again began to ride, imagining with some regret, soft sheets and proper bedding.

***

By the time she found the lights of her brother’s camp, Sansa had almost exhausted what supplies she had found at the accursed inn. The young woman stared at the pennants of her people fluttering in the wind, and wished she could have felt some measure of relief.

Instead, the Slayer couldn’t help think that the journey had been the easy part. What lay ahead was the true challenge – getting her brother to release his prisoner in exchange for Arya’s life. An almost optimistic part of her wondered if perhaps he hadn’t already done so. Perhaps Jaime was already on his way back to King’s Landing…

Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to trust that hope. In fact, if Robb hadn’t already made the exchange, it was likely that her brother would not willingly hand the son of Tywin Lannister over to Joffrey now.

But she had to try. She had to trust that perhaps Robb loved their sister enough to give her forthcoming request due consideration…

A younger Sansa might have fooled herself into thinking that her brother would be convinced through words alone, to do as she needed him to do. The Sansa as she was now, however, was becoming all too familiar with the weakness of men. If Robb refused her, for whatever pigheaded reason he had taken into his head, she was not going to be stupid about it.

Leading Dawn off into small gully, Sansa carefully secured the mare beside gushing water.

“I’ll be back,” she assured the beast, stroking its muzzle affectionately. After so many days on the road, she had become quite attached to the mount. The horse whinnied softly, nuzzling into her fingers. Sparing the last apple from her pack, Sansa fed the animal before she took her leave and approached Robb’s camp on foot as the sun began to set in earnest.

As she crossed the boundaries of the camp, Sansa found herself already sizing her surroundings, looking for the fastest routes of escape, and observing where the guards seemed most likely to ignore during their patrols. The air was filled with the smell of cookfires and roasting meat, and under that, the pungent reek of sweat, shit and piss.

Out of the miasma that surrounded her however, Sansa easily picked out the one thing she was looking for, and the one thing that made her heart flutter madly.

_Jaime._

Jaime was here, in the camp, and he was alive.

The relief that crashed through her then was almost stunning in its intensity. For a moment Sansa felt almost giddy from the knowledge that he was very much within reach of her. It took some doing, but she had to remind herself that running to him was not an option she should, or ought to take.

Dragging her focus towards her immediate surroundings, Sansa ignored the curious and leering stares the soldiers were throwing in her direction. Instead, she concentrated on finding Robb.

As she rounded a corner, Sansa found herself staring into an open tent, where a group of men gathered, poring over maps and scrolls scattered all over a heavy wooden table. In the middle of the group, a figure she had known since she was a child stood.

The planes of his face, the way he carried himself, the manner in which he gestured was so painfully familiar that for a moment, all she could do was stare stupidly at Robb. Sansa resisted the urge to run to him and bawl in his arms the way she had done countless times as a little girl.

"Unless you have any business here, and I doubt you do, you might want to clear out of the way of his Grace 'afore he sees you. He doesn't like camp followers coming so close to the plannin'..." a guard moved forward, faltering at the very last as he caught sight of her face under her cowl.

"Quent," Sansa greeted with a watery smile, lowering her hood.

"Lady Sansa," the soldier gasped, taking a knee before her. Behind him, Robb had noticed the small commotion and had looked up to see for himself what was occurring only a few feet away.

The world stopped turning as brother and sister regarded each other, right before the King literally shoved aside his bannermen to get to his sister.

Sweeping her into a hug, Robb held tightly onto Sansa, as she in turn clutched at him.

"I thought you were dead!" he gasped into her dirty hair. "They told me you had died the day the took Father!"

"I'm not dead." she pointed out with a tearful laugh. "Surely you're not so stupid you can't tell I'm alive."

"You're still the same brat!" Robb said in a suspiciously thick voice, releasing her at last and holding her at arm's length to look properly at her. His eyes widened as he took in the way she was armed.

"Not quite..." Sansa murmured. "Oh Robb...you have no idea how good it is to see you. After..."

"I know." he replied softly. "I know..."

They stared at each other bleakly, acknowledging the full weight of their shared grief in the middle of a war.

"I wish Mother were here. She'd be so happy to know you're alive." her older brother said. "But she's off treating with Renly. One of our many Kings, as it were."

"Oh," Sansa hadn't actually known her mother had been in the Riverlands. The last she had heard of Catelyn Stark, she was still in the Vale, with Tyrion in her keeping. Not being around society had left her quite ignorant of much of events that had transpired. Still, knowing she had been so close, and was now so far...and knowing how much her mother must have suffered...

"Come. You must be tired. I'll have them draw you a bath and fetch a hot meal, and then you have to tell me how you made it so far from the Capital all on your own..." Robb began to usher her away.

"There's no time." Sansa shook her head, remembering herself. In a low voice, she continued, "Robb, we have to talk about Arya."

The King in the North froze, and looked down at her with unreadable eyes.

"Please," she begged.

***

He listened intently as she told her tale, of her final days in the Capital, and in turn, she paid attention to the tidings he offered, of a world she left behind when she rode into the countryside.

For her part, Sansa left almost nothing out, from the arrival of the guards at the Tower of the Hand, to her days hiding in the streets of the city.

Carefully, she skirted the discussion of how she had evaded capture, or how she survived the streets without being murdered or raped, carefully attributing all of it to blind luck, and the kindness of strangers.

Guards came, fetching herself and her brother ale, and serving her a large bowl of steaming food. Hungry as she was, Sansa could not at the end, resist the offer of sustenance. Once they had served food and drink, the stewards left the siblings and Robb’s wolf alone in the King’s tent.

“You tried to get to father as they…” Robb stared at her in disbelief. “But why? They would have cut you down!”

“I wasn’t thinking.” Sansa replied honestly, swallowing her final mouthful of food. If her brother was stunned at her lack of manners as she wolfed down the venison before her, he didn’t seem to care. “I thought if only I could get to him, I could stop the…the…”

Shifting uncomfortably, Robb looked away guiltily. “I should have been there. I should have travelled down with all of you.”

“And what? Get yourself captured and ransomed?” Sansa asked bluntly. “Or killed with Jory and the rest of our men?”

“Why weren’t you killed? Why were you spared while Arya remains in their clutches?” Robb asked, eyes narrowing every so slightly as he considered what his sister was narrating.

“I told you. I was knocked out and the Queen told Joffrey I’ve been imprisoned. She wanted me to come treat with you, for the sake of her brother’s life in exchange for Arya’s.” Sansa repeated, trying to hide her impatience.

“Why you?” her brother stood and began to pace. “Why not somebody else?”

“Because you’re more likely to listen to me, than to a stranger.” Sansa said. “Because I’m more likely to care about your decision, for the sake of my sister’s life.”

Because Cersei was counting on the shared interest between both women which no one else in the world would understand; the Queen knew Sansa would fight for not one, but _two_ lives, Arya and Jaime both.

Robb’s eyes were dark as they studied her by the flickering light of a brazier; the way he looked at her, was as if he was suddenly unsure who sat before him. Fighting down the hurt, Sansa refused the urge to let her gaze fall away.

“The Queen cannot defy the King. That much is obvious, or Joffrey would have treated directly with me for such an exchange in prisoners. I do not trust her word and I have no intention of releasing Jaime Lannister at this time.” Robb said at last. “I have sent a man to Tywin Lannister instead. I suspect I might have a more favourable reaction from him, what with the life of his oldest son in my hands. I want him to accede to our terms before we discuss the release of the Kingslayer.”

“And if he doesn’t agree to your terms?” Sansa asked, standing up to meet her brother’s gaze. They were now both as tall as the other. “And if Tywin Lannister has decided he has been insulted enough by our family, first when we took Tyrion Lannister, then when our father summoned him to court to answer for his crimes, and yet again, when our father accused his daughter of treason…”

“His daughter did commit treason. With her brother!” Robb said heatedly.

“What good did he do?” Sansa exploded in equal fury, ignoring the fact that she had Jaime’s own confession burning a hole through her conscience. “The Seven Kingdoms have descended into chaos! If you only knew the things I witnessed with my own eyes as I rode through the land.”

She watched as her brother paled with rage.

“How dare you betray our father’s memory?” Robb demanded.

“Betray…” Sansa gasped. “I tried to save him that day. I watched him die and for his sake, I would have lost my own head.”

Separated now by a gulf between them, brother and sister glared at each other.

“Tywin Lannister has two sons. To hear you tell it, Tyrion is no longer in the custody of our Lady Mother, and in fact, now sits in the Capital as the Hand of the King.” Sansa forced her voice into a semblance of calmness. “Has it occurred to you that Tywin would not particularly care if Jaime Lannister lives or dies at this point? Or that Tyrion might be more easily convinced to part with our sister, in exchange for his brother?”

“You speak of matters you don’t understand.” Robb shook his head stubbornly. “Mother told me some wild tale, that Jaime Lannister confessed of some affair the two of you were carrying on…”

Sansa stood, flabbergasted.

“I see now that it is true. You didn’t come for Arya. You came to save your lover.” he sighed as anger ebbed out of him. “You were always too enamoured with the songs of old for your own good. No doubt, the Kingslayer’s reputation as a knight and his handsome countenance worked their charms on you. Far too well.”

The Slayer felt sickened at the fact that her older brother, whom she had trusted and looked up to almost her entire life, was now using who she had been against her.

“I rode across a land flayed by a war nobody asked for, braving rapers, brigands and worse.” Sansa said in a low voice. “I rode for the sake of my sister, who languishes in the tender care of Joffrey Baratheon, who took my father’s head before my very eyes. Have a care what you say to me.”

“No doubt, you have become proficient in defending yourself,” Robb’s eyes glinted dangerously. “But do not make the mistake in thinking you can threaten your King.”

The mistake, Sansa realized, was in believing that her brother might have been any more reasonable than other men. No amount of love she carried for the figure before her would change who he was, or even, change his mind.

“I would never threaten you.” she said softly, allowing her shoulders to slacken. “You are my brother. Pig-headed, and stubborn, but you’re my big brother who I love so very much.”

“And you’re my sister, who I swear has given me more grey hairs than any other sibling in our household.” Robb replied, remembering who he was speaking with. Tiredly, he ran a hand over his face. “Mother’s tent is empty now that she’s away in the Stormlands. You may rest there. Tomorrow, we’ll send you back to Winterfell where you’ll be safe. Our little brothers would be glad to have you home…and you’ll find yourself forgetting about the Kingslayer. You’ll see.”

For a second, she almost protested in pure confusion. Bran was not in Winterfell, and he was no longer little. Rather, he was under the world, and much further North than even Jon at the Wall could possibly guess at.

“Aye. Winterfell.” Sansa forced herself to smile. No matter what she saw in her dreams, Bran was, in the present, but a little, crippled boy, tucked safely away in her childhood home with Rickon. Robb came to stand before her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I miss our brothers.”

“I miss Arya.” Robb said very seriously. “I want her back as much as you and Mother both. But I cannot afford to be stupid. I have a war to win.”

 _A war for a sister,_ she thought churlishly. _Why not._

“Will you relieve yourself of your weapons?” he said at last, grinning wanly down at her and gesturing towards her blades which she refused to be parted from when first they sat together. “You’re safe here in my care. I promise.”

“It will take some time for me to feel safe anywhere,” Sansa confessed. “Humour me in this brother. Please.”

Kissing her forehead, he drew her into his strong arms as she wrapped her own around him, holding on to him as if she would never see him again.

“I’m so glad to see you safe. You have no idea.” he whispered.

“I’m so happy just to see you,” she whispered brokenly.

Things could have been so different.

***

Alone, Sansa cleaned herself as best as she was able, before forcing herself to step back into her soiled tunic and breaches. Brushing the fleas from her hair, she observed in the glass how thin her face had become, and for a moment, wondered if Jaime would even recognize her.

Guiltily, the Slayer berated herself. She should not want him as much as she did. Her father had died trying to expose Jaime’s treachery, albeit to a King she hadn’t respected nor even liked.

No, for the sake of Ned Stark’s memory, she thought despairingly, she had to put the desires of her heart aside. Even if Jaime had no true hand in the death of Lord Stark, how could she ever forgive herself if she continued the affair with the knight?

If all went well, Sansa thought, she would see Arya back home to Winterfell, and then…and then she would venture where her visions were commanding her to go.

She would venture North of the Wall, and do her duty…and likely die in the doing of it.

***

The camp quieted down as the hours rolled by, and only when she was sure that she had a chance, Sansa slit the back of her tent open with her dagger, and stepped out. Allowing her senses to guide her, first, she found her way to the food stores.

Stuffing her pockets with as much dried fruit and meat as she could carry, and slinging as many wineskins as she could manage, the Slayer hoped that what she took with her would be enough to sustain two people until they could at least find a town that was not utterly decimated.

Satisfied that she had taken as much as she reasonably could, Sansa fled on silent feet, towards the farthest corner of the camp where they kept their livestock…and their most valuable prisoner.

The moment she caught sight of Jaime, Sansa found herself sorely tempted to march back to her brother’s quarters, and take Robb to account for the state of the knight. The man was filthy, and she could tell that they forced him to exist in his own mess. His hair had grown in, and his beard was untrimmed…and his eyes.

His green eyes were filled with such a hopeless light as she had ever seen.

Slipping out of the shadows, she found the first guardsman seated on a stoop, lighting a pipe. The second paced about close by, looking bored and restless.

“I’m here for the Kingslayer.” she stated calmly, ignoring the way Jaime immediately seemed to recognize her voice from his cage.

They had him chained like an animal, she thought furiously.

“No one sees the Kingslayer except King Robb, or the Lady Stark, and you’re neither.” the second guard barked in annoyance.

“You misunderstand. I wasn’t really asking…”

All too quickly and easily, both men were laying on the ground, unconscious but breathing. Sliding her hands about their persons, she found the keys to Jaime’s chains. Carefully, she divested one of the men of his cloak.

As quietly and as quickly as she could, she hurried her way to the cage and opened it. Unhesitatingly, she approached the bound man and released him from his manacles, silently cursing her brother as she did so, for the manner in which Jaime was imprisoned.

The man in question on the other hand, kept on staring at her with mouth agape, as if he were looking upon a ghost. Depending who he had been talking to, she supposed, she might as well have been a ghost to him.

“Come on,” she shoved the stolen cloak at him, hoping he would snap out of his shock. To her relief, the man regained his senses and did as she bid.

***

They were finally past the borders of the gate, and well into the shadowed marshes of the Riverlands before Sansa broke into a run, straight towards the gully where she had hidden Dawn. Behind her, she could hear Jaime panting as he tried to keep up.

The man had been sorely abused through malnourishment, she realized, continuing to tally Robb’s sins in her head. Imagine if word of his treatment got to the Capital - what would that mean for poor Arya? By the seven, if they were not already abusing her, it was likely they would repay her in kind.

Sickened at her brother’s carelessness, Sansa allowed her anger to simmer under the surface as she untethered Dawn, pausing only when the knight beside her reached out a tremulous hand.

“Sansa?” he asked as she turned to look upon him. Her heart was beating loud enough, the entirety of Robb’s army should have heard her.

The look of wonder had returned to his eyes, she saw.

Understanding finally came to her - Jaime had spent the past few months thinking she was dead. The man had been told that she was gone from this world, and that he would never find her again, despite his promises to return to her side.

She would have reached for him then, conscience be damned, to assure him that she was there, and she was real.

But then the shouts started, and Sansa knew the game was up.

“Get on!” she commanded, shoving him to shake both of them out of their daze. A hint of a smirk on his still handsome face, Jaime hoisted himself upon Dawn’s saddle, and she followed suit.

Riding with her back to his front, with his arms engulfing her, Sansa slapped the reins in her hands, and as one, they fled into the night, racing as far away as she could from those that would look to hurt the man she loved.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Sansa reunite for real. It's a tough go. Like, super tough...
> 
> A tragedy is averted (though our heroes have no idea)
> 
> Fluffy-ish ending though.

They rode in silence throughout the night, racing towards an unknown goal he could not yet identify, but which he sensed Sansa was guiding them unerringly towards.

Once the sounds of Robb Stark’s camp faded into the distance, once it was clear that they had not been followed, at least for the moment, Jaime began to truly take in his new reality.

The forest they were riding through was pitch black, and he was certain that yellow eyes were tracking their every move, though he rather suspected that the dangers were faced were less the undead kind, and more of the lupine nature.

Given the fact that he was unarmed and still quite weakened from his captivity, the differences were one and the same.

He would have said that being with Sansa guaranteed he had some measure of safety - the Slayer was after all, a formidable force to be reckoned with. But it did not escape his attention that the woman in his arms was not exactly the woman he had left behind in King’s Landing. For one thing, he could feel every rib in her body through the layers of their clothing.

From the way she was beginning to nod off in the saddle, Jaime hazarded a guess that the woman had not been sleeping much, if at all.

Wresting the mare’s reins from her hands, Jaime guided their mount through the woods, wary that one false step could break the horse’s leg. At the same time, he steadied Sansa’s tired body, for fear that she would slide off the beast altogether.

Never had Jaime been so pleased to see the sun rising over the treetops a few hours later. Satisfied that they were alone, the knight guided the horse to settle beside a stream, before sliding out of the saddle. Carefully, he lifted Sansa from her seat, despite her mumbled protests that they ought to keep on riding.

“You may not need the rest,” he said soothingly, brushing matted curls from her pale face. “But we cannot afford to break the horse before we get to safety.”

“I have to get you to King’s Landing,” she murmured as her eyes fluttered.

Settling under the shelter of an oak tree, Jaime frowned at the woman, surprised at what he was hearing. However, as she faded off into slumber, the man realized that answers would have to wait. Whatever it was Sansa had been through, she needed her rest now, as did he.

Pulling her securely against his chest, the knight allowed himself to drift off, trying not to envision what Robb Stark’s reaction would be if they found the pair entangled the way they were.

Certainly, he reflected, there would be no mercy this time. Only the executioner’s block.

Now that Sansa was finally in his arms once again, alive and breathing…for the first time in months, Jaime found himself never wanting anything more than to keep on living.

***

It was her muttering that brought him back to wakefulness. The Slayer was still sleeping, but judging from the way she twisted and struggled, her dreams were not pleasant.

“Slayer,” he murmured, shaking her shoulder. “Come back to me.”

Blue eyes fluttered open, and looked at him dazedly. A small hand reached up and touched his dirty cheek. “Jaime…oh Gods Jaime…”

Unable to bear it a moment longer, he crashed his lips against hers, allowing himself to revel in the softness of her lips, the sweet taste of her mouth. At first, she seemed content to return his ardour as her hands clung desperately at his ragged clothing. Moulding her body so it fit snugly against his, Jaime rejoiced in the simple sensation of having her close.

As his left hand drifted on its own accord towards the ties of her cloak with every intention of divesting her of her clothing, she pulled away with a gasp and stumbled to her feet.

“We can’t. Oh Gods we can’t.” she shook her head as her face crumpled.

“Sansa?” he asked in confusion and worry as he pushed himself off the ground.

“We cannot do this.” she insisted, breathing hard and fighting to regain her composure. Reaching out to touch her, to his dismay, the woman deliberately dodged his advances. “Jaime…we can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, wishing she would speak plainly.

“My father died because of you.” she stated, looking him in the eye as she said this. Anguish filled her blue eyes.

“What?” his green eyes narrowed. “How could you…”

“He died because he was trying to do the right thing by exposing the treasonous actions wrought by yourself and by your sister.” she pressed on wretchedly. “Secrets which I kept for you. We cannot do this. Do you understand?”

Reality crashed about Jaime in a deluge as her words finally sunk in.

“I betrayed my own brother in taking you.” her chin lifted. “Though in taking you, it will guarantee the life of my sister Arya. Your sister promised…”

She hadn’t come for him, he realized with cold detachment. Sansa hadn’t truly ridden out for him alone.

“You mean to trade me for her.” he said flatly.

Nodding, Sansa finally looked away, her shoulders shaking from the effort of hiding her tears away.

Even now, even knowing that she thought him responsible for her father’s death, Jaime still wanted to reach out and comfort the obviously hurting woman. Something occurred to him just then.

“Does Cersei know what…who you are?” he asked as a spike of apprehension knifed through him.

“Pycelle, treacherous man that he is, betrayed more than my father.” Sansa spat bitterly. “Your sister saw fit to use my strength for something other than what it was meant for.”

The thought of Cersei sending Sansa out to retrieve him as if she were some pet, rankled at the knight.

“What are we waiting for Slayer?” he asked at last in resignation. “Let’s go.”

“Jaime I…” she murmured, wringing at her hands. “…you must know that it is not you I blame. After everything your family has done to mine however, I could never forgive myself if I allow what is in my heart to…and your sister has made it clear…”

“Please don’t.” he said, striding towards the horse. He could not look at her. “If you have any kindness in you…”

“I couldn’t bear it if you hated me.” her voice was so very lost. “I wish things were simpler, easier.”

 _They could be_ , he wanted to say. _They could still ride for the nearest port, and find a ship to take them to the far side of the world, away from the troubles of the Seven Kingdoms._

“I could never hate you.” he said instead, climbing onto the mount and reaching a hand down to her. “I love you so much that when I thought you dead, I sought the Stranger’s kiss every hour of every day.”

He was gratified to see that his words hurt her; that he was capable of hurting her at all, come to that.

“Come along Slayer. If I know Joffrey, he’ll be itching to hurt someone. Let’s get there before its your sister he turns on…he really doesn’t need much of an excuse.” he said at last. Nodding miserably, Sansa grasped his hand and allowed him to assist her into the saddle.

***

It was a special kind of torture, he thought as they rode, being forced to be so close to the woman he desired above all else, and not being able to actually do anything about it.

Worse, because he realized that she wanted him just as badly.

Every time they brushed against each other, every time their bodies came in contact - which was all the time - the want was almost unbearable.

Jaime wanting nothing more than to pull the woman off the horse, and cause her to give in to urges he knew was there. There was a spot, he knew, between her ear and the nape of her neck, which if he so much as breathed on, would elicit a gasp of pure desire.

As they galloped hard through the Riverlands, stopping only for short periods to rest and avail themselves to what little food she had managed to steal, he found himself growing curious of how she had made it as far as she had on her own.

Conversation had been stilted at first, as he had fully expected. Yet as she described details of her journey, as words began to flow once more between the two of them, Jaime found himself alternating between fascination and horror.

“A whole town. Turned.” he asked as he chewed on stale, cured meat.

“It was horrid.” Sansa said, her face twisting in grief at the memory. “Slaying children wearing the faces of demons. The one who sired them…he told me as he died, he thought it was the only way for them all to survive.”

Eventually, he told her of his strange friendship with Briden, and the things he had taught the boy.

“And he did it? He killed the demon?” Sansa asked in surprise as they sat before a fire he had built. Jaime watched her by the golden light of the flames, and noticed how her eyes kept darting hungrily towards the rabbit he had set to roast over the flames. With the use of her dagger, he had snared them a lean meal for the night.

“Does it come as such a surprise to you that a mere _man_ can defeat a vampire?” he teased with a smirk. “I get the feeling that you, on the other hand, found living off the land a lesson you couldn’t properly learn. Tell me Slayer, did you ever learn to start a fire? Or learn to catch your supper?”

“I survived just fine ser,” she informed him with a haughty sniff, though the effect was quite ruined by how she immediately tilted her face towards the cooking meat in almost obscene craving.

“Ah yes, the picture of wholesome health you are,” he laughed at her even as she began to giggle. Without meaning to, he reached out and touched her face tenderly. The cheer dimmed in her eyes as her hand caught his.

She didn’t let go however.

“I missed you every day.” she said at last. “I missed you so much I thought I would die.”

“If I could have been there, I would’ve…” he started, moving to sit closer, only for her to gently hold him away.

“Jaime, I know its not your fault. But…” she looked down at her own hands.

Jaime was glad that he and Sansa seemed to have finally regained a sense of camaraderie, one that strongly resembled their initial friendship when first he had began fighting by her side. The fact was, however, that he still yearned for what they had shared beyond the boundaries of King’s Landing.

Seven hells - what kind of jape was it, that a grown man such as he, was reduced to courting a woman almost half his age, and seeking her favour with such desperation? As the world was crumbling about their ears no less. Her brother wanted him dead, and his son was likely tormenting her sister. If he had any sort of decency left in him, he ought to leave Sansa alone and allow her to finish what she started.

And yet…and yet simply knowing that she wanted him just as badly made it so very hard for him to turn away.

Moreover, having experienced first-hand, what it was like to lose her, he was coming to the realization that he was not quite willing to simply let her go. Years of simply allowing things to happen as they would, had taught him that nothing good came of sitting back and allowing fate to take the reins.

That was how he had allowed Cersei to slip away into a sham of a marriage. The years with Robert had stripped away what little compassion she possessed, leaving her worst traits at the fore. She had always been cruel, but there had been a time when she would at least have acknowledged the _wrongness_ of deeds wrought at her hand.

How much difference would it have made if he had insisted to his sister that they belonged together, and that no crown could have provided her the satisfaction that their love did?

All done now of course - too many years, too many sins between them, for the siblings to ever return to that place where all things were possible.

“Perhaps its my mistake in assuming you know me.” Jaime turned to tend to the fire and their supper. “You don’t. Let me make this clear - you might never forgive me, or forgive yourself your own desires, but I don’t plan on leaving your side ever again. So tell me - do we exist this way for the rest of our lives, or do you really want to waste more time than we have, pretending that there is nothing left to speak of between us?”

“The rest of my life is a short one.” Sansa retorted, all mirth forgotten. “Once I have Arya safely transported home, I plan to answer the call that has been beckoning me.”

Swallowing, Jaime gave up on any restraint he possessed and moved to crouch before her. “This is madness. I’ve seen the terror on your countenance as you dream…do you imagine it will be better in your waking hours when you face whatever it is that summons you?”

“Do _you_ imagine I wouldn’t do everything in my power to stop such evil from taking the land?” she hissed. “I don’t just dream of the Night King. I dream of everyone I love being touched by his foul hand. Jaime, I dream of _you_ , dead and mindless, enslaved to his will. I am the Chosen One - if I don’t do this, no one will. I would rather die before I simply _let_ this... _thing_...stand victorious.”

It had never occurred to him that something like that would have plagued her nightmares. Then again, how many times had he awoken, still feeling the prick of her fangs against his skin?

“Besides. Your sister made it quite clear who you belong with.” Sansa continued drily. “And it’s not as if our old plans hold any weight…”

“I belong to you. And you to me. You have since the night we first sparred.” he ground out in frustration as he stood up and picked the well cooked rabbit from the fire. “I haven’t a clue what else to say outside of that. I will however, content myself with feeding you just now.”

“You know, we did have enough dried…”

“If you say we had enough dried fruit for another supper, I swear by the old gods and the new, I will throw all of your supplies into the next stream we find, and force you to hunt our next meal.” Jaime growled.

“Well I suppose we’ll just go hungry then won’t we?” she replied churlishly.

Glaring at each other, it was hard to say who was the first to crack a smile.

***

It was a week after they had fled from the Northern host, and the sky was overcast, so dark it might as well have been dusk. The fens of the Riverlands felt endless, and it was starting to feel as if they were not getting anywhere at all.

As they picked their way along a dirt road, Sansa’s shoulders began stiffening in a way that Jaime had long ago, come to understand spelled danger of a very specific sort.

“Take my sword.” Sansa whispered unsheathing her weapon and passing it back to him as they crossed a bridge. Wordlessly, he accepted the weapon and watched as she conjured a stake from up her sleeve.

Digging her heels into the mare she named Dawn, the horse picked up speed, but already, Jaime could see nightmarish shapes keeping pace with the beast. The creatures converged on the road ahead, where a small group already awaited with their blades drawn.

“There’s something wrong…” Sansa muttered. “Those that hunt us are not all dead…”

Jaime had no time to respond. An arrow had found Dawn’s flank, which sent the horse screaming as she stumbled. Wrapping his body around Sansa’s to protect her from the fall, the two of them rolled off the struggling horse onto the hard ground. Knowing that they did not have the luxury of time to recover from their tumble, he forced his vision to focus with painful effort and stood up.

“Get yourself to King’s Landing.” Sansa hissed softly as their assailants closed in. “I can take care of this.”

“I told you I’m not leaving you.” he whispered. “Besides, not all of them are demons. Unless you’re planning on killing them…”

“I can try besting them without bloodshed. Please Jai..,” she said snapped her mouth shut, understanding all at once there was still a slim chance the men surrounding them had no idea who the two of them were.

He understood that Arya’s life depended on his wellbeing. But he also understood with cold clarity that he treasured Sansa’s life above that of her sister’s.

Perhaps he hadn’t changed as much as he thought, he realized as he brought his sword down on the nearest brute, a living breathing man. Unlike Sansa, he was not bound by rules barring him from spilling living blood.

Beside him, the slayer launched herself into the fray, laying blow after blow upon their attackers.

As they fought, Jaime began to realize to his horror that weeks of deprivation and captivity had caused his reflexes to slow much more than he had anticipated.

Cursing aloud time and again, the sword in his hand managed to find its target a few times, but between Sansa’s reticence to kill those whose hearts still beat, and his inability to fight to his full potential, it took no time at all for the both of them to be disarmed.

Worse - Jaime saw as he was wrested to the ground - the living men landed blow after blow upon an almost un-resisting Slayer. All too quickly, her head rolled back. Blood trickled from a wound somewhere upon her scalp.

“No!” he shouted desperately, straining towards her fruitlessly as both a man and an undead fiend held him down.

“She lives.” someone said, weaving among the dead and the living. The scent of the Slayer’s blood, it seemed had inflamed the vampires in the group, causing them to reveal their true faces. Despite their hungry growls however, the fiends appeared to be holding themselves back with remarkable control. “Though I can’t promise you for how long…Kingslayer.”

Jaime bared his teeth in fury.

Laughing at the knight’s rage, the other man said, “Don’t bother lying about who you are. The only reason you were so easy to find, was that some of my…brethren…have been gifted with the ability to track you by your very _reek_. We’ve been on your tail for days now, since the two of you escaped.”

“Does Robb Stark know that demons serve his cause?” Jaime spat as he was hauled to his feet. His glare fixed on the nearest vampire, who snapped its fangs menacingly in his direction. Rough rope was wound about his wrists, securing his hands in front of him.

“Robb Stark doesn’t know _I_ serve his cause, but since I owe my patronage to Lord Bolton, that’s really all that matters.” the man chuckled, and gestured to his soldiers. “Get him and the Stark girl on a horse. We ride for Harrenhal.”

There was no point in struggling, Jaime knew. Yet watching the way they manhandled Sansa, at how their hands lingered too long on her body, he could not stop the surge of rage and fear from rising within him. Dispassionately, they took from her person, her weapons and a small bag of gold.

Not far away, Dawn brayed in pain as she was put to the blade.

***

Night was falling by the time Sansa came to. Throughout their journey, they had bound her so she settled with her front flush against his own, yet another deliberate indignity visited upon the both of them. Now, the two sat on the ground, bound tightly together as the company made camp.

“What’s happening?” she asked groggily has she came to.

“We’re being taken to Harrenhal.” Jaime whispered. “How’s your head?”

“Its been better,” she admitted. “Who are these brutes?”

“It appears your brother has a number of the undead in his ranks.” Jaime said softly, pulling back to witness the horror in her blue eyes. “To be fair, they are part of Roose Bolton’s ranks, and your brother likely has no idea. That’s how they found us.”

Sansa loosed a rare expletive.

Jaime lowered his voice and said urgently. “You cannot afford to be merciful.”

“I cannot…” she started protesting.

“You can and you have to,” he urged, wishing he could impress upon her that the time for moralizing on the ethics of killing was over. “These men will hurt you the moment they get a chance. They will rape you and kill you.”

“I can best them without killing them.” Sansa insisted. “Besides, if they’re Robb’s men, they can’t kill me. He would never spare them.”

“Listen to me!” Jaime hissed in frustration mingled with fear. Keeping his voice as low as he could, he said under his breath, “The only advantage we have right now is…”

Before he could finish his thought, one of the vampires cocked his head towards them, clearly listening in interest. Jaime fell silent, but it was too late. A few of the brutes in the company approached the bound pair, and loosened the ties that secured Sansa to him, before they started dragging her struggling form away.

“You can’t hurt her. She’s sister to your King.” Jaime said aloud, unable to hide his panic any further.

The man who lead the group - Locke, Jaime overheard them calling him - looked on in cool amusement between the pair.

“She’s also a traitor.” he laughed. “Seems like I’ll be doing the King in the North a favour by ridding the world of her. Not before the lads have had their fun of course.”

“Robb would never allow this,” Sansa spat. Jaime couldn’t be sure, but it appeared as if she was already starting to break through the bindings lashed over her own, slender wrists. A solid punch to the jaw from a snarling vampire stilled her movements for a second, before she lashed out with a flailing leg and broke the creature’s limbs.

A flurry of men immediately descended upon her, both living and dead, and all Jaime could hear was the sound of blows landing on the woman.

“Don’t worry, we don’t plan on hurting you,” Locke said, strolling over to the knight, who could not bring himself to look away. “Though when we tell King Robb that we found you, just as you had finished ravishing and murdering his sister, I have a feeling your safety will become much less guaranteed.”

Heart in his mouth, Jaime watched as the men began ripping at Sansa’s clothing, to which the Slayer responded with an outraged shriek, but not much else.

She was going to adhere to the ridiculous rules the Citadel and Sept had enforced upon her, he understood with despairing finality.

Locke smiled, looking over his shoulder. “Never had a highborn cunt in my life. First time for everything eh?”

“My father has gold. He will pay you if you would only just…” Jaime started, only to be rewarded with a backhanded blow across his face.

“Take me.” Jaime heard himself saying, his green eyes smarting from pain. “Take me instead of her. I’ll…I’ll do whatever it is you want.”

There was a gleam in Locke’s eyes that made the knight sick to his stomach.

“You do have a pretty mouth…and I never thought I’d get to fuck a Lannister…”

Dirty hands stroked at Jaime’s lips, before sliding under his soiled tunic, running themselves over the bound man’s skin. Forcing himself not to protest or flinch away, the knight bore the man’s advances in bitter resolution.

If this meant that Sansa was spared the worse of these brute’s natures, it was worth it. With a leer, Locke reached down and cut through the bonds that held Jaime. All of them.

So sure he was, of his captive’s cooperation for the sake of saving the woman.

“Boys, forget the slut. We’ve got a warm and willing body over…”

There was a loud snap a few feet away; it was the sound of bones cracking. Someone screamed, and then others joined in.

Jaime looked past Locke to find himself staring at a bloodbath.

Men lay dead on the ground, eyes glazed over in death. Bloody holes gaped in their chests, their flesh ripped open by the filched weapon clasped in Sansa’s hands. The few vampires who still persisted were each crippled, trying and failing to get away from the Slayer as she advanced upon them, eyes blazing with holy fury.

“You wanted a piece of me?” she asked in a cold voice Jaime didn’t even begin to recognize. A thrill of terror ran down his spine, as both himself and Locke stared at her in open-mouthed shock. Smashing a dagger towards the throat of a screaming demon, she added, “Take it with you straight to hell.”

Head neatly severed from his body, the vampire crumbled to nothing as her blue eyes found Jaime’s own across the small clearing. Somehow, it cleared the fog that had settled in his mind.

Scrambling to his feet, the knight tackled the man who would have raped him to the ground, before wrapping his fingers around Locke’s neck. He squeezed, and kept on squeezing, until the whoreson stopped struggling, and his chest stopped heaving.

When he was finally sure that the deed was done, Jaime fell backwards with a gasp. The only two left alive in the grove were himself and Sansa.

Breathing hard, the man counted to ten in his head, before he climbed to his feet and slowly approached the Slayer, who stood over the corpses of the men she had slaughtered. Blue eyes fixed upon the face of a particularly young soldier, whose neck was twisted to an odd angle.

“I saved him,” she said in an eerily calm voice as he drew close. “I saved this man a few days ago. There was an inn, and the whores, they would have drained all present…he ran. I watched as he ran…”

“It doesn’t matter. He tried to hurt you.” Jaime carefully reached a hand out to touch her shoulder. “Sansa, we have to go…”

“I couldn’t let them hurt you.” she said, finally lifting her gaze to meet his own. Blood and dirt stained her pale countenance.

“I couldn’t…I killed them because…” she started. “I heard what you said. They were going to…”

“Slayer, we have to go,” he interrupted gently, urging her towards where the party’s horses were all tethered. With what strength he had remaining, he lifted her small body onto a saddle, before turning to the grisly scene behind him.

Steeling his heart, Jaime took from the corpses weapons for both himself and his companion. Almost as an afterthought, he searched and came up with as much gold as he could from each dead body.

Grimly satisfied that he had found everything he needed to ensure their survival, the man climbed onto the beast where a still-shocked Sansa continued to stare straight ahead in docile silence.

With not a little relief, Jaime urged their new mount into a gallop, and rode away from the bloodied grove as quickly as was possible.

 

***

By the time they found an inn, the sun had set hours ago, but the woman in his arms was still silent from the shock of what had transpired miles behind them.

Realizing that Sansa was not going to get herself off the steed without his help, Jaime reached up and pulled her towards the ground. Deciding against the use of the front door, the knight stumbled towards the back of the establishment with the young woman braced against his side. Entering the kitchen, he caused an old woman to yelp softly in fright from her place before a cutting table.

The woman might have screamed further, had she not caught sight of the slight figure he was supporting with difficulty. Hurrying towards them, she gasped in shock at the bloodied state of both visitors at her door.

“My wife and I were beset by brigands,” he said breathlessly. “Please, we just need a place to rest.”

“These are dark times,” the woman wiped her hands on a rag. “Let’s get you upstairs…”

“Not through the front,” Jaime stated, and added pleadingly. “Please. We escaped but those men lived. They might be here.”

The woman hesitated, looking at him askance. Fumbling in the layers of his soiled clothing, Jaime drew out a single gold dragon and shoved it towards her.

“There’s not really a whole lot of people in here tonight, but…” she turned and hurried towards the front, before gesturing frantically at them. Warily, the knight followed her, and stepped into an almost deserted dining room, where an old man dozed by the hearth. Carefully, by the guidance of the cook, he urged the Slayer up the stairs towards a small room with an un-covered window.

“I’ll let the innkeep know you’ll be needing a bath…and clean clothes for the both of you,” the woman tutted.

Hoping he was doing the right thing, Jaime passed her yet another Gold Dragon. “My thanks for your…discretion.”

There was no chance now that the woman believed his story about brigands, but it didn’t matter. The silence of those who kept the place had been bought.

Closing the door, Jaime turned back to Sansa, who blinked owlishly up at him. “Are we staying the night?”

“Yes,” he said, gently moving her so she sat on the small, straw filled pallet behind her. It smelled of sweat and faintly of mold, but it was all they had. Carefully, he began to remove her muddied boots. Kneeling before her, he made to undo her torn cloak, when her hands reached up to stop him.

“Jaime…”

“I’m not…” he started helplessly. “This isn’t what you think. I just want you to be rested and you seem…”

“No, listen to me.” she squeezed her eyes shut as her grasp tightened ever so slightly against his fingers. He couldn’t help but recall the sound of crunching bones back in the clearing, but forced himself to remember that this was Sansa, whom he trusted with his life. “I killed today. I did the one thing I was told I couldn’t do…”

“You had to. They were going to rape you, and worse.” he said firmly.

“No, you don’t understand, I did it because they were going to hurt you,” tears began to well in her eyes, and began to roll down her cheeks. “I couldn’t let them because I…Jaime, I couldn’t. I still love you…”

_The things I do for love._

Unable to stop himself, he pulled his hands from her tight hold and pulled her face towards his, claiming her lips in a searing kiss. Tangling his fingers in her russet hair, he murmured his answer against her lips, over and over.

“I love you…”

This time, Sansa did not push him away. Instead, she allowed him to move her onto her back, accepting his kisses and his touch without reservation, although her shoulders still shuddered from repressed sobs. Pulling at the ragged clothing she wore, testament of how close he had come to seeing her violated in front of him, Jaime stripped her bare and proceeded to lavish every inch of her skin with attention.

Between the two of them, they managed to shuck the soiled material he wore from his skin in almost no time. Being free of the tattered material felt liberating in more ways than one, especially once his naked body made contact with Sansa’s smooth skin.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he gasped as his cock brushed against her own slick desire. He desperately wanted to protect her, regardless of his own baser inclinations.

“I’ve missed you…” she replied, tears forgotten as she raised her hips to meet him.

Groaning, he entered her in one swift move, drawing a cry of pleasure from Sansa’s chest. If he had persuaded himself that he would take it slow, his illusions were swiftly shattered as he thrust into her with increasing urgency, an urgency that was fully met by his lover.

With a cry, the woman found her completion against him; it was enough to send him tumbling after her.

Laying against each other, Jaime rolled away slightly, and gathered the woman into his arms, smoothing her hair away from her dirty face. Both their hands were still stained in blood.

“I love you.” he said, finding his voice. “I’m never leaving you. I don’t need a Septon to tell me what I already know - that I belong to you, and you to me.”

For a moment, the Slayer looked as if she was going to protest. As she gazed into his green eyes however, he could tell that she was finally coming to an understanding that nothing she could say would change his mind.

“As you say,” she smiled sadly, tracing the shape of his face. “I don’t think I need to tell you again what is in my heart. Not after today.”

Shaking his head, the two of them held tightly to each other, clutching at the only things they were sure of in a world gone mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah lemme know if I should keep going...it's only really like three more chapters..."really".


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jaime make it back to the Capital.  
> Pycelle is a giant dick.  
> BtVS lore is leveraged pretty hard these two chapters.  
> Warning: Sansa gets pretty hurt in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two Chapter post! Because I just realized it's just intense melodrama from here till the end.

In the morning, the back of her head still felt tender from where she had been so brutally struck. Still, Sansa felt more refreshed than she had in weeks, even if her heart had never been heavier.

The bath they shared, the fresh clothes they wore, likely went a long way towards soothing her physical well-being. Waking up beside Jaime had given her a thrill of momentary happiness, right before the events of the past weeks invaded her consciousness.

Pushing back the nausea, Sansa dragged herself up to sitting. Reaching out to her slumbering lover, she gently stroked the purpling bruises blossoming all down Jaime’s back. Savage satisfaction settled in the pit of her stomach at the knowledge that she had exacted revenge for his sake, against those who would have hurt him badly.

The man stirred and looked up at her with a lazy smirk, one which made her heart ache and soar all at once.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Jaime murmured, pulling her back down into a kiss. 

It was unwise for them to linger, she knew, yet as his clever hands pulled away the flimsy nightshirt the innkeep had provided, Sansa found that she could not resist his touch. 

A soft voice in the back of her mind chastised her for falling so easily into the arms of the man indirectly responsible for her father’s death, and for whom she had betrayed her own brother.

But undeniably, it was a voice she was finding easier to ignore with every passing second.

Just as Jaime dipped a kiss under her earlobe, there came a frantic knocking at their door. Sighing, the pair separated and hurriedly donned the clean garments piled in a corner of the bed. Sansa found herself dragging on a well patched dress, which was old and comfortable, but likely, utterly impractical in a fight. 

“Soldiers are approaching.” a muffled voice warned. “I get the feeling you don’t want to be here when they arrive.”

“Get our horse around the back. And if you can, load it with as much food and ale as we can take with us,” Jaime commanded. 

Footsteps hurried away as Sansa strapped on the weapons Jaime had helpfully and unceremoniously shoved into her hands.

“My lady, don’t you just look…deadly?” he looked at her quizzically. Against her full skirts, her unconcealed weaponry seemed incongruous. 

“I’m sure patched breeches are all the rage in the capital right now.” Sansa retorted, brushing past him. Still, as she descended the stairs, she could feel his appreciative gaze on her back, and remembered that he seldom had the pleasure of spending time with her while she was so garbed. 

***

The ride south was not smooth, but the perils they encountered paled in comparison to what they had endured at the hands of the Bolton party. A few times they stumbled upon new nests of bloodsucking demons that had sprung up across the countryside, birthed into undead existence thanks to the continued fighting that always lingered just around the corner. With Jaime regaining his strength by the day, the two made quick work slaying the ones who did not flee from their unexpected incursion. 

It still rankled the Slayer, that her own brother was unaware of the creatures that served under him, though to hear Jaime’s account of Roose Bolton’s reputation, it all made sickening sense.

“It’s hardly surprising that a man who thinks nothing of flaying his enemies alive, inspires even vampires to his cause,” he observed as they plodded parallel to the Kingsroad. 

“They have been our allies for centuries.” Sansa said through gritted teeth. 

Her companion said nothing on the matter, choosing instead of brush his lips against her russet hair. 

Which was another change in her journey from King’s Landing. The man seemed intent on distracting her as they rode, his hands constantly wandering under her rough spun cloak, and indeed, under the layers of her skirts. 

It was a good thing he seemed able to retain full control of the horse, she thought distantly, every time his clever fingers found her clit while his lips ghosted over the nape of her neck. 

“Anyone could see us,” she whispered more than once through laboured breaths as he stroked her into a frenzy.

“Sweetheart, we are surrounded by nothing but trees,” he would tell her when he even deigned to respond with more than an exasperating, cocky grin. 

Each time they stopped to rest and to find sustenance, somehow, Sansa always found herself moaning under the weight of her lover’s body, as Jaime drove deeply inside of her, swallowing her whimpers with deep, heated kisses.

“I swear, you’ve become utterly insatiable,” she told him half-chidingly, after one such interlude, as they swallowed what stale food they had left.

“Woman, I’ve been caged a long time.” he laughed. “If I had it my way, I would find us a bedchamber and stay in there for a month.”

“We would have to eat at some point,” she pointed out reasonably, batting away his advances as she attempted to take a sip of ale.

A slow grin spread across his handsome countenance, right before he launched himself at her. Rucking her skirt up, firm hands spread her thighs as he shifted between them. Pushing away her smallclothes, he plunged two fingers of his right hand into her core and pumped slowly. Dipping his head down, Jaime licked mercilessly at her folds. 

Gasping at the unexpected onslaught, Sansa bucked against him, which only caused him to strengthen his attack. 

It felt like her world had narrowed down to the place between her legs; like nothing else even began to matter except the pleasure the man was offering her as he stroked the damp walls of her body, both with his mouth and his fingers. Part of her wanted him never to stop, but the urge to find her pleasure was fast becoming too great.

“Please…” she begged, clutching at his golden locks. “Please Jaime…”

“I didn’t quite catch that…” his breath brushed against her clit. 

“Please let me come,” she pleaded, not realizing what a pretty picture she made, aroused and flushed as she was. 

“Say it again,” he commanded, lifting his eyes to meet her desperate gaze. His hand barely twitched against her, but touched her just lightly enough to drive her insane.

“Please Jaime…” she mewled.

“Well since you asked so very courteously like a good girl…” his eyes were dark as he leaned down to finish what he started. 

Lifting her hand, she bit into her own flesh to mute her cries as she peaked endlessly. When finally, her body had stopped shuddering and as she lay in the sun in blissful peace, Jaime laughed down at her, wiping at his untrimmed beard. 

“Does that answer your question on what I would dine on?” he asked lewdly.  
If Sansa could have turned any redder, she would have. Rescuing her from having to find words, he pressed a kiss against her lips, allowing her to taste herself on his tongue. 

***

Their strategy had changed to an extent as they rode. Nights were spent, wherever possible, under the roof of farmers and townsfolk who accepted coin in exchange for room and board. While vampires might have tracked them, without an invitation into the homes of the living, it was less likely that they were able to reach the two weary travellers. 

“They could always burn the house to the ground,” Jaime observed wryly. 

“They wouldn’t get a chance.” Sansa promised coldly, fingering the crossbow strapped to their steed. The weapon had been obtained by trading what steel she had. 

Horses were traded every chance they got; the nights they could not find shelter, the two rode hard across the countryside, slowing only at the first sign of daybreak, whereupon they would collapse together in a makeshift camp.

Her own dreams too, had shifted. Some nights, she walked through a bloody grove alone.

Strange fruit hung from every branch, and the Slayer found herself flinching from the sight of each disturbing shape. Here she found the shape of her father’s face, there the muted plea in her Septa’s eyes. When she thought she sighted the countenance of Robb staring accusingly down at her, when she was convinced she had caught a glimpse of grief-stricken eyes set in her mother’s dead visage, Sansa forced her eyes to the ground.

Corpses lay at her feet, sinking into the muddy earth as they each became engulfed by slowly creeping roots. These were the living men she had slain to protect Jaime.

“You’re learning at last, that the faces of evil aren’t always one and the same,” Tomas commented as they walked under the red boughs. A cold, dry hand found her own; it was strangely reassuring in the dark, hellish forest.

“I learned it the day they murdered my father.” she asked, fingering her bright red cloak. Lady’s shade flickered amongst the trees, following her every move in silence. “Perhaps my lesson is this: I’m a killer. It’s right there in my name - Slayer.”

“Your lover, he’s killed hundreds in his time.” Tomas sounded amused. “You’re well suited.”

“In times of war. He’s killed in times of war.” she stated, looking into his dark eyes. “Jaime’s not a murderer.”

“Are we not at war? I thought that was what we were waging.” he laughed, yellow eyes flashing. “Tell me, do you still hate me?”

“I don’t really know anymore,” she shrugged, not reaching for a weapon though her senses were screaming at her to do something. Tomas reached out with a gloved hand and cupped her cold cheek, even as Lady began to growl.

“I do,” he whispered.

In her dreams, his teeth were always sharp, and it always hurt when he bit down at last…

***

Passing into the Crownlands, Sansa felt apprehension growing in her belly until it was a lodestone that weighed down her every move. None of Jaime’s attempts to soothe her worked. As much as she wanted to retrieve her sister, the truth was that she had no wish to return to the Capital. 

How much had it taken from her, and how much more would it cost her, she wondered as the knight ran his hands over her naked back in the room they had purchased for the night. 

Downstairs in the dining room, the men spoke endlessly of Stannis Baratheon’s defeat at the Blackwater, and of Renly’s fate. In the latter, no one could agree exactly on how Renly had been killed, only that he was dead, and that his troops had been scattered to the four winds. 

“We’ll get Arya,” he whispered, feathering her skin with kisses. “And once we have her, we’ll take a ship to White Harbour, and from there, we’ll take her back to your home…”

“We?” she questioned in a small voice. “Jaime, your place is by your sister. And there’s the question of your oaths…”

“Oaths? As a Kingsguard you mean? I’ve broken most of them. A few times with you, if you recall,” he said quietly. “If I know my father, likely, I’ve already been stripped of my White Cloak, regardless of things as they stand…”

There had been bitter irony in his voice when he told her days ago, that his father had agreed to pressure the King to release him from the Kingsguard, for the sake of his intention to ask for her hand. Tywin Lannister needed little to no excuse to do such a thing, and with Robert dead, and him missing for so long, not to mention the very fact that he had begged his father for such a boon, there was nothing stopping the Warden of the West from carrying out the action.

“It doesn’t matter. Your sister has staked her claim…” Sansa shook her head insistently, only for Jaime to silence her with a gentle kiss on her lips.

“I don’t care. You’re the only thing that matters. Where you go, so goes my kingdom.” he stated simply. “I will always love Cersei, but she does not own me, nor my life.” 

There was no point arguing with Jaime; he had his mind made up in the matter, it seemed. Had it only been less than a year ago, when the two of them had tried to abide by the rules they had been born into, allowing the world to shape their paths, never mind their natures?

Silently, Sansa worried that even though they had bucked the tethers that once held both of them fast, they would both eventually choke on leashes they could yet see. 

The next morning, as the two of them dressed to leave, Jaime looked down curiously at the Slayer. 

“Did you ever find that vampire that broke your arm? I hope you gave him a sound thrashing.”

_Ah. A conversation she had hoped they would never have._

“I did indeed, find him.” she said shortly.

Jaime tilted his head to look down at her with narrowed green eyes.

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

“He’s already dead.” she said evasively.

“Did you kill him?” he repeated, a note of worry creeping into his voice.

“We spoke.” she started and stopped, flustered. “Jaime, it’s complicated.”

“How is it complicated? You’re a Slayer. He’s a vampire.” Jaime demanded. 

“Yes but…” 

Sansa felt, rather than saw him glowering behind her. 

“Tomas isn’t the same as the others.” Even as she spoke, she could herself hear how weak her words sounded. “We spoke on many things. He’s been alive since the time of King Maegor, and it seems he saw enough of the ills that plagued the Capital, and means to help the…”

“Seven hells, are you meaning to tell me he’s wormed his way into your good graces?” Jaime asked in disbelief. Too late did Sansa realize that her face was reddening, a fact her companion did not fail to miss. “Tell me that’s all he’s charmed his way into.”

“We should get going…” she said quite weakly.

“Tell me.” he growled, wrapping an arm possessively around her waist. 

“I need you to be sane about this,” Sansa said, looking him in the eye. “I don’t think he meant it badly, but he stole a kiss from me one night.”

“You don’t think he…” Jaime laughed derisively. “By the Seven, the blackguard has got your head completely turned around.”

“I didn’t want him to kiss me.” she was starting to get angry. While her lover’s jealousies could be charming, she was currently reminded of all the other times she wanted to throttle him for his foolishness. “He was trying to rile me up”

The man fell silent. Finally, he said very seriously, “Be that as it may, you cannot forget what he is. He’s a soulless demon who feeds on the innocent and the helpless.”

For a split second, Sansa thought to deny it on behalf of Tomas, but then again, the fiend had unabashedly informed her that he had no qualms feeding on whatever came his way when pickings were scarce. Shame filled her as she recalled the faint shapes of her recent dreams.

“Enough. I know to do my duty ser.” Sansa said coldly. “We should start for the Capital. The day won’t last forever, and both our sisters await.”

Growling in frustration, the knight turned and stalked out the room without another word. A moment later, the Slayer followed.

***

The rest of their journey was finished in silence, at least until they drew up to the city, whereupon they caught sight of the charred wreckage still smoking slightly in Blackwater Bay. 

“It appears we missed a great deal of excitement.” Jaime mused, his emerald eyes shadowed. The closer they got to the city, the more they caught wind of the tidings coming out of King’s Landing. 

In their absence, it seemed a battle had been fought, one that decided the fate of Stannis Baratheon and his forces. All the gossip and rumours they had heard on the road did no justice to the cold, hard reality they gazed mutely upon. 

Still, as the pair listened to the ceaseless chatter of all whom they passed along the road immediately outside the entrance to the Capital, they learned of yet another twist. Since they had ridden out from the Riverlands, it seemed that the man who presided as Hand of the King was none other than Jaime’s own father, instead of his younger brother.

“To be fair, I think it’s excitement I am happy we did without,” Sansa observed mildly. Already, their quarrel had been forgotten, in light of far more pressing worries.

Nodding dubiously, Jaime sighed and dug his heels into the sides of their horse, spurring the beast through the gates of King’s Landing and racing the steed towards the Red Keep. Dismounting at the gates of the castle, the pair stopped before the guards, who eyed them in suspicion.

“Let us through.” Jaime commanded haughtily, every inch the eldest son of Tywin Lannister.

“And who do you think you are that we should allow you into the Red Keep at this hour?” the guard sneered, until someone nudged the older man frantically.

“Ser Jaime,” the latter said, bowing and scraping like an elderly steward. “You’ve come back to us.”

Despite her growing anxiety at the prospect of the gauntlet still ahead of her, Sansa could not keep her lips from twitching at the look of pained irritation on her companion’s face. 

“Ser…” the first guard’s eyes widened as he immediately understood what he had just done. “Begging your pardon ser, please come in, but…uh…your…”

“The Lady will be coming with me.” the knight said shortly. 

“Of course.” To the other man’s credit, he regained his composure with remarkable speed as he stepped aside. 

Their exchange had not gone unnoticed. Already, actual stewards were running towards the wide doors of the castle, to herald the arrival of Jaime Lannister. 

“I don’t quite know what I am to do next. I had assumed I would present you to the Queen, and some sort of trade would happen then…” Sansa muttered. 

“You are assuming I understand the intricacies of ransoming.” Jaime replied, looking annoyed at his own ignorance. “Believe it or not, I don’t make a habit of being taken by my enemies.”

“Whatever happens next…” she said softly, so only he could hear. “I want you to know that I love you.”

He squeezed her hand briefly, even as passing servants started in recognition at not only him, but also at the sight of a woman most of them had thought dead. 

A faceless and nameless servant took the reins of their mount from Jaime’s hands, even as a young Maester approached. 

Vycter, if Sansa recalled correctly – a peon of the Grand Maester himself. Just the memory or Pycelle standing beside her father as Ned was executed was enough to raise her fury once again.

“The Grand Maester has been informed of your return with Ser Jaime,” Vycter said as he approached. The side of his eyebrows twitched anxiously. “You are to come with me. Your sister is in his care.”

“Why? What has happened to her?” Sansa asked, paling as half a hundred lurid fantasies raced through her mind. Had Arya been so injured by her captors, that she now lay dying?

“She is well, but you should hurry.” The man insisted, already ushering her in the direction of the Grand Maester’s solar. When Jaime made to follow, Vycter turned to him and said apologetically, “Ser, the Maester has requested only Lady Sansa’s presence. The Lady Arya is not fit to receive any…uh…male visitors at this time…”

“I don’t recall ever having to obey what the Grand Maester commands,” Jaime started, but Sansa cast him a look that stilled him in his steps. Ignoring the stares from everyone around them, she pulled him off to the side, away from Vycter’s hearing.

“I’ll be alright. Please just let me do this.” She whispered.

“I suppose I should present myself to my family.” Jaime sounded unhappy at the prospect both of leaving her, and of seeing his relatives. “Wait for me at the gates of the City.”

“I will. I promise.” The Slayer nodded firmly.

In full view of the world, Jaime leaned down and kissed her softly on her lips. Hiding her apprehension at his boldness, Sansa pulled away quickly and hurried to the Maester.

As they left the knight behind and traversed together past familiar passageways, Vycter finally offered quietly, “I am sorry for what happened to your father.”

“As sorry as Pycelle is, I’m sure,” Sansa answered coldly, refusing to acknowledge the man’s pained wince. 

“I didn’t…I didn’t believe what they said about Lord Stark, for what it’s worth.” Vycter said wretchedly. “He seemed like a good man, and did not deserve the sentence that was meted.”

They exchanged no further words until they reached the Maester’s door. Before pushing the heavy oaken doors open, the young man looked directly at her, and said very sincerely, “Good luck Slayer.”

Unsure what it was she ought to say to him in response, Sansa decided quickly that silence would suffice. Brushing past the young Maester, she entered Pycelle’s chambers.

Whereupon, she found herself staring at two archers positioned on opposite sides of the room, with arrows aimed squarely in her direction.

“Welcome back Slayer.” Pycelle said, rising to his feet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Silently, Sansa cursed Pycelle, Vycter, and herself. In that order.

Why she had anticipated anything outside of treachery from the man before her, she would never know, and now, it seemed she was about to pay the price for her carelessness.

“Where’s Arya?” she demanded, refusing to so much as acknowledge the archers, who trailed her every move. She could hear the taut thrum of their bowstrings as she approached the Grand Maester. Behind her, Vycter had already closed the door, sealing her only escape route.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about her.” Pycelle said, his voice missing its usual, quivering quality. The men who had their arrows nocked and aimed at her, she realized, donned the robes of the Citadel, rather than the uniform of the Palace guards.

“What is this?” Sansa demanded. “You’re looking to replace your Slayer for a more malleable one then?”

“Far from it.” Pycelle gestured towards a table close by, where a pitcher and goblet sat. “Sansa, it is time for your test.”

“Test?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.

“The _Cruciamentum_ , as it is called. Every Slayer has to endure such a test, to prove themselves.” Pycelle replied as a smirk split his wrinkled face. There was nothing benign about his smile. “Go on, pour yourself a glass of wine dear girl. I’m sure you’re parched from your travels.”

“And if I refuse both the wine and the test?” Sansa growled, understanding that the man before her cared nothing for her physical comfort.

“Then we do what’s necessary, and wait for a more – as you say – malleable Slayer.” Pycelle nodded. “Lady Sansa, I don’t want to do what’s necessary, only what’s fair; I am ultimately, a servant of the Citadel and would never wish to intentionally hurt any Slayer in my charge.“

Knowing she could not in fact, disarm every man who had his weapon pointed at her, not without sustaining grievous injury, Sansa slowly approached the pitcher of wine, and poured herself a goblet of what looked and smelled like Dornish Red, but which carried with it, a distinctly acrid scent.

“It’s not poison Slayer. It’s just something to facilitate the _Cruciamentum_.” Pycelle said encouragingly.

Glaring at the decrepit figure, Sansa drank.

Within seconds, the room began to spin. As the heavy goblet tumbled out of her hands, the Slayer’s limbs felt as if they were leaden. 

The Grand Maester tsked sadly as her body was propped up by the hands of strangers. “You know Sansa, I’ve always liked you. Your father was a bit of a prick, but you – you seem to grasp the realities of life far better. I truly respect you. I hope you live through this…but if not…”

The world was nothing more than a blur of colours now, and Sansa was frightened, too frightened to offer any form of response. Voices echoed oddly about her, as she found herself disarmed, and hauled towards the door once again. Ruthless hands dragged her unwilling feet down a dim passage, as her cheeks dampened with tears.

“Please…” she whispered softly, but her plea went unanswered. Whatever Pycelle had forced her to drink, it made her heart hammer against her chest, loud enough so that the sound of it was all she could hear as they took her down and further down, one dusty corridor after another. Impossibly, the fear kept on rising within her chest, until it threatened to swallow her whole.

Without warning, the hands that held her up and dragged her for what felt like hours, dropped her upon a dusty floor. Heavy doors shut behind her, leaving her in a room lit by a single torch. Slowly, the Slayer drew herself up and looked about her, forcing herself to breathe slowly. 

The massive skulls of what could only have been dragons greeted her blurry eyes as she stood on shaking legs; they were in fact, all around her. Her hands did not feel like her own, as she reached out to touch the coarse surface of a large dragon tooth.

Something moved in the darkness, something large, giving proof to the fact that she wasn’t alone.

“Who goes there?” someone called. It was not a friendly voice.

Tightening her grip, Sansa tried to break off the dragon tooth. It would do for a weapon, if only…

…if only she could break it off. To her dawning terror, it appeared that the tooth would not budge. No matter how she twisted and pulled, nothing happened. Judging from the age of the skull, it should have given way to her a long time ago.

Whatever strength she had been bequeathed upon her calling, it had all been taken from her, just now when she needed it.

Grasping at the layers of her dress, her every instinct turned towards the thought of flight, a wooden stake tumbled out of her clothing, sending her clawing desperately after it even as the sharp object clattered loudly against the ground.

The voice called out again, in rasping tones. “I can hear you, you bastards. Keeping me in here like this. When I find you, I’ll drink all of you dry.”

Silently cursing the rustle of her clothing, Sansa did her best to keep to the shadows – not that it made much use against a vampire. Looking around the mausoleum of skulls, Sansa tried to clear the fog from her mind…

When she had been brought to the Red Keep all those months ago, they had spoken of where they kept the Targaryen trophies and relics – the cellar, they said. Didn’t Arya mention secret passages leading to the cellar, small enough for a slender figure to pass through, but not a grown man?

“I can smell you. I can smell your fear…” the voice was coming closer.

Crouching low, Sansa began to feel at the edges of the room, where the wall met the floor. The Slayer crawled as quickly as she could, though in her heart of hearts, she understood that she would never move fast enough to escape her doom.

The further into the cellar she ventured, the less able she was to see.

Just as she was about to turn a corner, Sansa’s fingers found a space in the wall. Feeling frantically, it was, as she had so hoped, a tiny opening that might have fit Arya…and perhaps, might even take her. Lowering herself unto her belly, she scrabbled into the dank space, praying fervently that whatever pursued her would not be able to fit through the small tunnel…

“I see you little mouse, in your little hole!” a voice cried triumphantly behind her. Cruel hands grasped at her ankles and yanked her out even as she screamed in unholy terror.

Struggling against inhumanly strong hands, Sansa found herself slammed unto her back.

Dark as the room was, even her weakened vision could see that the vampire on top of her was hideous. The most hideous she had ever encountered at that. 

He was as large as Gregor Clegane, and his demonic visage still bore the bloodied scars of some struggle that had taken place not long ago. Raising her stake, she made to plunge it towards his chest, only for him to bat it away with no difficulty whatsoever.

In doing so, she heard a pop on her right side - her shoulder had been dislocated.

“Brave little mouse…” he said in sickening glee as she screamed once again in pure, unadulterated agony. “Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon. I’ll make you like me, so you can be strong too…I’ve always wanted a pretty wife…”

The demon widened his jaws, before he dived towards her neck and ripped her flesh open with ease.

As Sansa began to die, her mind drifted back to a night beneath the stars, as Jaime held her, pressing his forehead against her own… 

It was a sweet memory to think upon, she decided hazily.

Finally, she knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets angry.  
> Jaime gets angrier. 
> 
> Tywin and Tyrion get a clue.

There was little point in wondering if his father already knew of his presence in the Red Keep. And as much as Jaime had already decided on his path, regardless of what Tywin, or even Joffrey ordered, the man understood that he would at the very least, have to face his father one last time.

It was not Tywin he found himself gravitating towards however. Unsurprisingly, Jaime found himself ascending the steps within Maegor’s Holdfast, tracing footsteps he had memorized a lifetime ago, towards a chamber he had spent countless hours standing guard before.

At the doors of the Queen’s chambers, he found himself face to face with men who had once served with him, and indeed, to an unspoken extent, under him.

“Ser Meryn.” he greeted his former peer, who gazed at him indifferently, as if he had not been gone for months.

“Ser Jaime.” the man nodded in kind, but made no move to step aside.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“I’m here to see the Queen,” the knight said, feeling oddly stupid.

“Her Grace is otherwise occupied,” the man replied blandly.

That was the second time that night Jaime’s way had been obstructed by those who had never thought to refuse him in the past. Something of his old self surfaced then - no one had the right to stand between himself and Cersei, aside from her Lord Husband, and as far as he knew, that man was still dead.

“She’ll make time for me.” Jaime stated in a voice of a man who was used to getting his way. Meryn Trant, odiously presumptuous brute that he was, looked torn between obeying the Queen, and obeying him. Seizing on his confusion, Jaime ignored both white-cloaked guards and pushed his way through the doors leading to Cersei’s chambers…

…only to be greeted by the sight of a man he had never met, yelping in distress as he tumbled off the bed where his sister sat, frantically gathering bedclothes over her body in a delayed attempt to cover her nakedness.

“I told you she was otherwise occupied,” Ser Meryn thundered from behind.

Jaime stared at the tableau, trying to decide what it was he felt.

The man he had been, he knew, would have drawn the sword at his hip and advanced on the interloper, demanding satisfaction at the man’s attempt to impugn on that which belonged to Jaime.

“Leave.” Cersei ordered sharply, though Jaime understood her command did not apply to him. Never him, not even now. Obediently, Ser Meryn ducked away.

“I see you found yourself a bed warmer.” he was unable to keep the bitterness from his words.

“Why are you still here?” Cersei hissed at her lover as she climbed off the bed, pulling a diaphanous robe around herself. “Get out.”

“No, do stay.” Jaime said silkily. He had no right to be jealous - not, considering, how he had spent his recent days.

But still, there it was. The jealousy.

“I’m afraid I’m the one intruding.” he added spitefully.

The other man had already gathered his belongings with almost inhuman speed. Doubtless, he was worried about receiving a sword through his bowels by the hand of the Kingslayer himself. In a few seconds, the stranger was dressed and dashing for the door - testament, likely, to how well practised he was at a quick escape.

Left alone now with Cersei, he gazed at his twin, unsure exactly of what to say next. The truth was - he had come to say goodbye. Out of everyone in his family, he owed it most to his sister.

“That wasn’t what it looked like” she blurted out, crossing the space between them. “I swear Jaime, I…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said coldly, lifting a hand to stop her progress. The man shook his head, clearing it of the cobwebs that always formed when he was around Cersei.

“What?” she frowned, sweeping her unpinned hair off her face. “I spent my days worrying, and pining…”

Somehow, he rather doubted that.

“I’m safe.” he said shortly. “I’m safe, as you had wanted, when you sent Sansa off on her errand.”

Something flitted across her expression that he quite misliked. For whatever reason, the first notes of alarm began to toll in his mind.

“Yes. I suppose she did well.” Cersei looked down at her hands. “I owe her a debt.”

“She’s off to collect it, I do believe…” Jaime murmured. “I should…I should present myself to Father.”

“Wait…please,” she brushed his staying hand away. “Jaime, I…”

“Sister…” he said softly. “I came tonight to say goodbye.”

“What do you mean?” she asked as her eyes narrowed.

“I mean what I mean.” one hand reached behind him for the door handle.

“Your place is here,” Cersei growled. “Father would never…”

“I don’t care.” he said quite simply. In three words, he rendered Cersei speechless. Satisfied that he had accomplished at least that much, Jaime opened the chamber doors and hurried out, past a pair of bemused guards who watched silently as he departed.

Had he turned to look, he might have witnessed cruel satisfaction settling upon his sister’s brow; as it were, he did not stop to wonder why she hadn’t tried harder to make him stay.

Before he had gotten very far, he spotted his little brother hurrying towards him, gazing at him as if he were seeing a ghost.

Laughing in genuine pleasure, Jaime hurried towards the other man and scooped him into a warm embrace, a gesture that was received with the same amount of enthusiasm.

“I heard a rumour you were back, and thought I might find you skulking about our sweet sister’s chambers,” Tyrion murmured. “How did you escape?”

“Sansa.” Jaime said shortly, moving away. He had no wish to elaborate further.

“Sansa Stark? I was told she died in the Black Cells from her injuries. Some foolish attempt at avenging her father that went horribly wrong.” Tyrion frowned. “To be fair, I’ve heard many different stories of the circumstances of her death.”

“I heard she had died at the hands of the Hound.” Jaime said wryly, wondering how many times Sansa had been killed off in the imagination of those who dwelled in the Red Keep. “As far as I know, she’s off retrieving Arya…”

“Arya?” Tyrion’s eyebrows shot up.

That same feeling that something was amiss which he had experienced in Cersei’s presence, returned now with a vengeance.

“What is it?” Jaime questioned tightly.

“Arya Stark has been missing since the Battle of the Blackwater.” Tyrion said in a low voice, catching on to his brother’s disquiet. “What…”

Jaime had stopped listening. Already, he was turning, and his steps were picking up.

“Please, slow down,” Tyrion pleaded, trying to keep up with him as they practically ran through the multitude of corridors. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Everything about this place.” Jaime stated impatiently as he crossed the yard, cutting a direct path towards the rookery.

“Jaime, I don’t understand…”

“Pycelle’s summoned Sansa on some pretence that he has her sister.” Jaime growled, wondering when the Red Keep became so ridiculously massive that reaching the Grand Maester felt longer than his journey from the Riverlands.

“I tried to have him removed.” Tyrion sounded aggrieved. “Father pulled him from the dungeons the moment he arrived.”

The knight looked down at his younger brother, finding himself surprised.

“Likely, it was our sweet sister who did it in Father’s name.” Tyrion shook his head. “I doubt he has any idea the type of man Pycelle is.”

“He’d sell his own mother for a pat on the head.” Finally, the brothers arrived at the Grand Maester’s open door. Within, the man of the hour appeared to be seated at his desk, penning some missive. Without waiting for an invitation, Jaime strode in with Tyrion following close behind.

“Where’s Sansa?” he asked without preamble.

“Ser Jaime…” the old man rose shakily to his feet. “You’re home! And you’re well from the looks of it…”

“ _Where is she?_ ” Jaime reached out and grabbed the man by his throat.

Tyrion’s eyes followed his brother’s every move with glowing interest.

“Grand Maester, I do believe my brother is going to kill you if you don’t start talking.” the smaller man offered genially.

“She’s left the city…” Pycelle started. Watery eyes widened as Jaime unsheathed his dagger and held the blade to the man’s throat.

“We can tell you’re lying you sack of shit.” Tyrion’s voice dropped to a menacing octave. “Where is the Lady Sansa?”

“Ser Jaime, there are things you don’t…” the old man started almost placatingly.

“She’s in the cellar.” a voice said from the doorway.

Shoving the Grand Master away, the Lannister siblings turned as one to survey who it was who had spoken; green eyes sparked angrily as Jaime took in the sight of the younger Maester who had led Sansa away from him to begin with.

“If you want to save her, you have to be quick.” the man looked stricken. “I’m sorry, I was doing as I was told.”

He would have sprinted immediately in the direction of the cellars, had the man not added, “The tincture she was given - she was given all of it too quickly. Likely, she’s far weaker than she should have been, even considering…”

“Tincture?” Jaime asked hoarsely.

“Ser Jaime, she’s been weakened greatly for the _Cruciamentum_.” the other man said hurriedly, before glancing guiltily at Pycelle. The old man glared daggers in Vycter’s direction. “I’m sorry Grand Maester, I can no longer keep my silence on this. It is far too cruel, what we are doing…”

“Tyrion, summon the guards and ensure this cur stays exactly where he is.” Jaime called over his shoulder, even as panic threatened to take him whole.

Not waiting for an answer, the man sprinted towards the cellar where they stored the relics of the Targaryen Kings. Running with everything he had to give, Jaime descended the stairs, taking two at a time. Arriving finally at the entrance to the cavernous room, the knight observed two robed men standing out front, guarding the doors in stoic silence.

Slowing his steps, he crept forwards silently.

With his sword drawn, Jaime leapt at the first man and sliced his throat to the bone, all the while using the whoreson as a shield of flesh and blood. The second loosed an arrow, only for its sharp tip to find purchase in his dead companion’s bloodied torso.

Not giving his foe a chance to reach for another arrow in his quiver, Jaime stepped forwards and sunk his sword into the man’s chest, before shoving the corpse away.

From behind the heavy doors the two had been guarding, Sansa screamed.

In the time since he had known her, he had never truly ever heard the woman scream in such terror. Fear clutched at Jaime’s throat as he forced the doors open.

The cellar was lit with one torch burning in a sconce by his head. Reaching for the sole source of light, the knight heard once again, Sansa’s agonized scream. It was enough to make the blood freeze within his veins.

Someone rasped, “Brave little mouse…don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon. I’ll even make you like me, so you can be strong too…I’ve always wanted a pretty wife…”

Pycelle had locked her in this tomb, weakened and trapped with a vampire.

Hoisting the light up before him to guide his way in the pitch blackness, the man threw himself towards where he had last heard Sansa’s cry of anguish.

What he saw when his light touched upon the demon crouching low over the woman he loved filled Jaime with such rage as he had never known. The vampire had been gorging himself on her blood.

That much was clear, judging from the ruby droplets smeared all over his distended mouth.

“Seven hells!” Tyrion cried out somewhere in the background.

With a roar, the knight tightened his hold on the sword gripped within his right hand and swept forwards. Bringing his blade down in a deadly arc, he severed the demon’s head from its shoulders before it could even think to react.

As the creature’s body crumbled away to nothing, Jaime dropped his weapon without a second thought, and shoved the torch in his other hand towards Tyrion.

“Take it.” He commanded his stunned brother, who reached out and took the light from his older sibling with unsteady fingers.

“Sansa…” gingerly, the man slipped his arms under the woman’s shoulders. Cradling her lifeless form, Jaime found to his dismay that her eyes refused to open. Her right arm hung oddly from her shoulder, while her left arm lay limply against her lap. Blood kept on oozing from where the vampire had savaged her.

“Is she alive?” Tyrion asked fearfully.

“Her heart is still beating,” Jaime’s fingers were at her left wrist. “But only just so.”

Scooping the woman into his arms, uncaring that her blood stained his person, Jaime found himself praying desperately that he wasn’t too late; that they hadn’t made it so far, only for him to truly lose her now.

Running out the cellar and up the stairs, Jaime began screaming for help.

***

He had no idea where they were taken to; not that it mattered. By the time he had her laid out upon a bed, she was still lost to the world, and growing paler by the second. In his arms, she had felt disturbingly light, as if her soul was already leaving her body.

Vycter, the young Maester, hovered anxiously over her, applying ointments and administering as many remedies as he could, by gently forcing her throat to swallow strange liquids. As much as Jaime did not trust the Maesters, considering their role in Sansa’s predicament, he had no choice but to allow the young man space, for the sake of working his healing crafts.

It was cold comfort to him, to know that the man was likely trying his utmost to do right by the Slayer, under threat of certain death. A bare sword lay across Jaime’s lap as he sat at Sansa’s bedside, staring hopelessly at the tableau laid out before him. The danger Vycter himself was in, was doubtlessly and painfully obvious.

“What is the meaning of this?” his father asked, marching into the room. Tywin’s mouth set itself in a grim line as he surveyed the unconscious figure of Sansa Stark, before he shifted his gaze to Jaime. A flash of sympathy passed through his features, but in a heartbeat, it hid itself beneath his usual taciturn countenance.

“Good evening Father. It appears you too, have an excellent grasp of the situation.” Tyrion took yet another gulp from his goblet of wine.

“I want answers.” Tywin said quietly, looking between his sons. “I was told Sansa Stark died in the Black Cells from injuries taken as she tried to avenge her father at the Sept of Baelor. Not an hour ago, I was informed that she was back in the Capital, with my son in tow. And now here she lies...”

Even he could not bring himself to finish his sentence, as his gaze once again found the brutalized woman laid out upon the four poster bed.

“Ask the Grand Maester.” Jaime said in a dead voice, refusing to budge from his position. “Ask him what he did.”

“Father, I hope you don’t mind, but I had Pycelle packed off to the dungeon once again. It appears he had quite a hand in orchestrating tonight’s events.” Tyrion clambered to his feet with surprising stability, despite the copious quantities of wine he had already imbibed. “He’s the reason the woman who rescued your son lies here on the brink of death.”

“If that is true, I would have his head right now,” Tywin answered, his eyes flinty. “We are in debt to Lady Sansa, and a Lannister…”

“Yes, yes, we always pay our debts. Everyone knows.” His youngest son moved to stand beside Jaime. “But if she dies, it will not matter how much we owe her; it is a debt we will never repay.”

“She’s not going to die.” Jaime leaned forwards, refusing to turn his gaze away from Sansa.

“The Sla…Lady Sansa is strong.” The Maester said, looking haggard. “But she’s lost a lot of blood tonight. I’ve given her what I can to help her along, but it remains to be seen if she will live.”

“If she doesn’t…” Jaime started, bile rising in his throat even as his right hand tightened on the pommel of his sword.

He was tired of being made helpless, tired of not being able to protect the woman he loved from those who would do her harm.The only thing he had left just then, were threats and impotent anger.

“Maester, if she doesn’t survive, your fate will join that of Pycelle’s.” Tywin finished for Jaime. “As for you, there isn’t very much you can do right now for the girl. You will come with me and tell me what I want to know.”

“No.”

"Jaime..." Tywin sighed. "I have Vylarr posted outside this room, alongside his most trusted lieutenants. I need you to…”

“Father, I will not be leaving Sansa’s side. Not tonight, not ever.” Jaime declared woodenly.

Tywin looked around, studying the occupants of the room. "I take it that I'm the only one still in the dark, with regards to what transpired this night."

"I'm a little fuzzy on some of the details, though that could be the wine." Tyrion admitted.

The scion of House Lannister turned towards the doorway, where as he had promised, two red-cloaked guards were posted. "Close the door and do not let anyone else in here. None. Not even my daughter.”

Without a word, the men did as they were bid.

"Alright. I have humoured your irrational whims." Tywin grunted, pacing to stand by the hearth. "Will someone tell me what in the name of all Seven Hells is going on?"

Jaime huffed as a flash of irritation burned through his entire body. His father was simply not going to leave him alone.

Shifting his gaze at last to gaze upon Tywin and Tyrion, Jaime began to tell them all that had occurred since the day the Royal party departed from Winterfell.

***

"Vampires." Tyrion said after a period of silence. "They're real."

"You saw him with your own eyes." his brother said tiredly.

"She," the smaller man gestured at Sansa. "Kills them. Because she has received some sort of - what - blessing?"

"I'm pleased you see it as a _blessing_.” Jaime said flatly, glancing out the window upon Blackwater Bay. “We don’t.”

"And the Citadel and Sept have been in cahoots for eons, overseeing these...Slayers." Tyrion continued.

"Overseeing, tormenting..." Jaime turned to the quivering Vycter. "I'm unclear on the specifics, perhaps you'd be so kind as to provide the term your people are wont to use."

"We guard the lore, and guide the Slayer, whomever she may be." the young man said, lifting his chin.

"And sacrifice her to vampires when she's fails to obey your commands, apparently," Tyrion said sharply.

"The _cruciamentum_ is an age-old rite of passage for all Slayers." the man flushed. "When they turn eighteen...if...they turn eighteen, they are weakened, and made to prove that they are capable not just in body, but in spirit and in mind."

"So Sansa has what...failed?" Jaime whipped around indignantly. "She hasn't turned eighteen, in case you lot are interested. Sansa’s barely _seventeen_.”

"Pycelle lied then." Vycter sounded stricken. "He insisted as well that we gave her the entire tincture all at once. Typically, it is carefully measured out over a course of days. He claimed it was necessary, because the time had long passed since she ought to have been tested to begin with."

"You never even thought to question him did you?" Tyrion asked in unfeigned disgust. "Faithful dog that you are. As if weakening a girl and sending to her to face a monster at age eighteen is that much different from the sins you committed this night.”

"Maester, is there anything further you can do for Lady Sansa at present?" Tywin's voice was perfectly calm as he interrupted his son’s tirade.

"No my Lord," the man shook his head.

"Then leave us."

It annoyed Jaime that his father had taken full control of the room, and a part of him wanted to insist that the young man stay behind to tend to Sansa. Nonetheless, the Maester had already ceased his ministrations sometime ago, and had indicated it was simply a matter of waiting to see what happened next.

"Why did Pycelle conspire to have her tested today? Now?" Tywin spoke at last after Vycter had scuttled off. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds as if he was trying to ensure she perished in such a way nobody would think to accuse him of murder.”

Jaime found himself afraid of the answer, only because he had an idea who Pycelle had taken his orders from. After all, the Grand Maester had already betrayed Sansa once to Cersei...

"Perhaps he sought to do so, as Sansa is after all, the daughter of a traitor, and therefore, better off dead." Tyrion caught Jaime’s eye from across the room.

"Why were we told Lady Sansa was dead? What is the source of all these lies?” Tywin asked. "Why does our King not know of this?"

"That's a question for the Queen." Tyrion replied. "Jaime has been cut out of the loop, imprisoned as he was. As for me, Cersei has never confided in me. If I had to guess, I would suppose your grandson did not consider his uncle worthy of an exchange for the Stark girl, and likely, he would have had an opinion on how his former betrothed ought to have been dealt with, had he known she still lived. Joffrey doesn't suffer traitors, and as everyone knows, he treats their daughters with almost equal cruelty. We could ask Arya Stark to vouch for my statement, but oh, she's long gone isn't she?"

The older man looked displeased at what he was hearing but said nothing, though Jaime cast his younger brother a look of dread.

_What exactly had Sansa's sister suffered at the hands of the King?_

Approaching Sansa's bedside, Tywin looked down at her still form. "So this is the woman for whom you begged for my help, to release you from your oaths to the Kingsguard. And now that I have the truth from you…there is no mistaking the whys of it."

Out the corner of his eye, Jaime could see his brother's mismatched eyes brightening. That part of the story, he had left out.

There had been no point to it; with Ned Stark dead and the Crown at war with the Starks, and indeed, with Sansa's own feelings on how his family had dealt with hers, speaking of his old plans to pursue her hand seemed at best, an exercise in self-punishment.

“For your sake my son, I hope she is as strong as you say she is, and that she wakes from this…malaise. We shall discuss this further on the morrow." Tywin turned to leave. "Jaime. This has yet to be announced, but you've been released from your vows as you had so wanted."

Shrugging, the knight resumed his vigil by Sansa's bedside. What did he care about his White Cloak? Or anything else for that matter?

Tyrion waited until his father had departed before he spoke once again. ”I always used to worry about the poor girl who would suffer Cersei's attentions the day you found another woman worthy of your affections. I wasn't wrong."

"You don't know that she ordered this." Jaime said stubbornly, reaching to touch Sansa's hand.

"Don't I?" Tyrion questioned.

"No."

Silently, Jaime suffered his brother's close scrutiny.

"You really love her don't you? Sansa I mean, not our sweet sister, whom no doubt, is likely furious that her plans have failed." Tyrion said thoughtfully.

"How could I not love her?" Jaime asked wretchedly, settling on the bed beside the unresponsive woman. "She's good and brave and everything I'm not."

"Jaime..." Tyrion started, before stopping himself. With a pained look, the smaller man made to leave. "I'll have them send food, and water for a bath. I don't expect you to be leaving her side tonight...nor should you. If you take my meaning."

The knight shut his eyes in misery. How foolish had he been, to think he had truly slipped the net to which he had been born into?

"Get some rest. Father means it, he will want to speak on the morrow, on what has happened here tonight." Tyrion paused at the doorway. "Do promise me one thing - when you decide to kill that old fool in the dungeon, please,  _please_  allow me to accompany you."

Left to his own devices, Jaime lay down beside the woman he had pledged his life to, wishing that he could have brought her back to wakefulness through sheer force of will.

Grasping a limp wrist, the knight’s eyes slid shut, comforting himself that at least he could still feel the faint thread of her pulse under his fingertips.

It wasn’t much…but it was all he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> likely going to do a data dump of all remaining four chapters featuring Wedding Planner Tywin and Tywin and his super prompt weapon smith. And obviously, Cersei in all her crazy glory. Plus, a-hole Joffrey.
> 
> Oh, um, spoiler: Sansa's not going to die.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has to talk to his relatives. Naturally, it's the worst (except for Tyrion).  
> Oh. Pycelle is in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four Chapter race to the end! 
> 
> To paraphrase Ser Davos, I apologize for what you're about to see.

It was to his infinite relief to awake and to find that the woman had stirred in her sleep, even if she had not yet come to full awareness. Having spent countless nights beside her, he recognized that her breathing had resumed its familiar rhythm. Colour was returning to her cheeks, and altogether, Sansa no longer looked as if she might have been knocking on the Stranger’s door.

The wounds at her neck had closed, scabbed and shrunken as they were, though Jaime could tell from appearance alone that they would scar.

As Tyrion had promised, a bath had been brought to him, though that had been hours ago. The water in the large tub had long since cooled, but he had lived through worse. Forcing himself to rise to his feet, Jaime cleaned himself as thoroughly as he could, before he employed the use of a razor blade to remove the scruffy beard that had accumulated over weeks and months.

Running tired hands across his shaven visage, Jaime heaved a sigh of relief. A clean change of clothes - his own clothes in fact - had been laid out for him. As the man pulled familiar leathers and fine fabric over his still battered skin, he simultaneously never felt more like himself, and never more like somebody else altogether.

Months of captivity, of flight across the land, of having to grieve, and then to worry constantly about the fate of the woman he loved had served to change him in ways he had never anticipated.

Staring at a nearby glass, Jaime scowled at his own reflection, furious with himself for his own naivety. The knight had honestly imagined that he would ride back into the Capital, fulfill what mission Sansa had, before leaving with her once again. In hindsight, even the Slayer had warned him that his vision had been overly hopeful.

If he hoped to serve Sansa - and he did - he had to start thinking like their enemies.

Moving once again to sit beside the slumbering figure laid out on the large bed, Jaime gently stroked Sansa’s russet curls. As far as he was now concerned, with a few distinct exceptions, the intentions of every last soul in King’s Landing had to be considered suspect.

Tommen and Myrcella bore the Baratheon name, and the latter, not for much longer, according to what his brother had mentioned to him in passing. Tyrion had, during his short tenure has Hand, whisked Myrcella far from the perils of the Red Keep. Tommen was the King’s own brother, and likely would remain as overlooked as Stannis for the rest of his life, as long as he played his cards right.

As for Joffrey, never had Jaime felt more detached from the notion that the boy was his son, considering the threat he represented against Sansa’s life.

From what Tyrion had inferred the night before, the brat might have given Sansa cause to plunge a sword through his chest, and he was quite sure even her Slayer grace and agility would not save her from what would come after.

Under his hand, Sansa twitched her head slightly, before releasing a low groan.

Sucking in a breath, Jaime froze.

“Did somebody drop a castle on my head?” she muttered hoarsely as her eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure quite what to think. Then, without quite meaning to, Jaime found laughter bubbling from his lips.

“Your face. What did you do to it?” she asked, squinting up at him, before her eyes widened. “By the Seven, where are we? Where’s Arya?”

Weak as a day old kitten, she tried to push herself to sitting, an attempt she failed miserably at. Mirth already forgotten, Jaime slipped an arm under her shoulders and moved her so she settled her weight against him.

Brushing against her right shoulder blade, Sansa winced in pain, though to Jaime’s relief, she did not cry out. Vycter had pushed her joints back together only hours before. The audible noise of her bones grinding together under the Maester’s careful hand was not a memory he would soon forget.

“Sansa…” Jaime said, dropping a kiss on her hair, wishing he could have withheld the truth from her even a moment longer. “Your sister was taken by the Hound during the Battle of the Blackwater. She’s been missing for weeks now.”

The woman gazed up at him in mute dismay, as she understood that all she had done, all she had suffered…all of it had been for naught.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured wretchedly, hating how weak those words sounded.

Sansa pushed her face into his chest, as if trying to hide herself from the horrors of the waking world; her shoulders trembled under his touch as she sobbed into his tunic. Tightening his embrace, the two sat in silence for some time, until at last Jaime roused himself, knowing that their respite necessarily had to be a short one. Stroking his fingers down her cheek, he kissed her softly on her lips.

“My strength…Pycelle took it from me.” Sansa murmured worriedly as she looked down at her hands through red-rimmed eyes.

“Vycter tells me it’ll pass.” Jaime cracked a small smile. “You’ll be back to slaying fiends soon enough.”

“I don’t understand why…” she shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter.” Jaime said firmly. “Pycelle’s never going to be in a position to hurt you, or any other…”

The words stuck in his throat as he considered how close they had come to having a brand new Slayer being called. Again.

“I can’t be weak. I can’t.” Sansa shook her head, looking a little desperate. “I know I’ve said how much I’ve despised my calling, but I can’t go back.”

It was hardly surprising she felt that way, the knight thought as he stroked her hair. Ever since she had plucked him from his cage, or more precisely, ever since, the day she slew the living and the dead both, back in that blood soaked grove, something had changed in the manner the Slayer held herself. Every time they tore through the undead, he had noticed the raw fury and pleasure she took with every swing of her weapon.

After each fray, Jaime found himself waiting eagerly on Sansa’s increased ardour. Perhaps he had witnessed traces of it before he had been taken prisoner by her brother, but now, now he anticipated with glee, the way she would press her body hard against his, as if demanding with her entire being that he fulfill what appetite she’d gained from the kill.

It was as if Sansa was finally and fully embracing a side of herself she had tried for so long to shun…and in doing so, was becoming the glorious creature she had always been meant to be. For all of it to be ripped away so brutally…

Fuck Pycelle, Jaime thought viciously as he considered what they had taken from the woman in his arms. Fuck him and every last Maester, Septon and Septa for their endless machinations.

“Vycter is quite certain you will regain your strength,” he said out loud. “ _Slayer_ , you will be yourself again.”

There was no small measure of guilt in her expression, the latter of which dampened his spirits.

“Jaime, I’m _not_ sorry I plucked you from my brother’s grasp.” She said quite softly. “I just wish…”

“I know.” He said, nodding grimly. “We will leave this place as soon as we can. We will find her, I promise.”

“How?” she asked hopelessly. “Where would we start looking in the Seven Kingdoms? If the Hound hasn’t already killed her.”

He had no way of answering that question that wouldn’t make it sound like a lie.

***

Vycter came and went, pronouncing the Slayer healthy, though the shaking man tried and failed to ignore the sharp glares the woman cast his way. A bath was summoned, and with it came a handmaid, who stared insolently at Jaime from under rampant curls. The man stood with his arms crossed, reluctant to leave Sansa to the care of a stranger.

There was almost no question that he had breached the limits of propriety by spending the night with an unwed maiden – or at least, a highborn lady who was supposed to be an unwed maiden as far as polite society was concerned. To insist on remaining in her chambers as she was undressed and bathed was beyond the pale – it wasn’t as if he could have informed everyone present that he had seen Sansa naked countless times, or that he knew her body more intimately than anyone else in the world did.

On the other hand, it wasn’t as if Sansa could have remained in her bloody dress, with the dirt of the Kingsroad still clinging to her skin.

Tyrion stood at the doorway, looking torn between amusement and consternation at the pickle his older brother was finding himself in.

“Brother, you don’t really have a choice. Shae will not tend to Lady Sansa unless you’re gone. Unless you want Lady Sansa to remain in those rags, you don’t really have a choice.” The smaller man said in reasonable tones.

“But…” Jaime looked reluctantly towards Sansa, who looked utterly embarrassed by the whole situation.

“Shae comes with my own stamp of approval.” Tyrion stepped forwards with his hands held out in supplication. Softly, he added, “She’s not Cersei’s creature if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was in fact what he had been anxious about. Even if he did not want to acknowledge the fact that Sansa’s weakened state bore his sister’s marks all over it, the idea of leaving her alone with one of the Queen’s own servants terrified him.

“I’ll take good care of the Lady.” The young woman promised in an accented tongue, before bolding ushering the knight out the room.

“One scratch.” Jaime warned. “And I’ll…”

“You’ll cut my head off. Yes.” Shae nodded, and shut the door in his face, leaving him staring at the ornately carved door.

“Father’s already arranged separate rooms for you.” Tyrion said mildly. Jaime turned a questioning glance at his brother. “Surely you don’t think Father will want you spending another night with Lady Sansa, especially now that she’s awake and recovering from yesterday’s ordeal. You do realize poor Vylarr was threatened within an inch of his life not speak of last night’s events to anyone at all. I expect the poor man will be deserting our ranks any day now.”

“We rode all the way back to King’s Landing, just the two of us,” Jaime pointed out impatiently. “What should it matter now, whether or not we share a bed? He’s mad if he thinks I’m sleeping anywhere else, after everything that’s happened.”

“I understand it’s ridiculous, but do try to see it from the perspective of the court.” Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like it’s a secret she’s back by the by. Joffrey’s already clamouring that she be brought before him.”

“No.” Jaime shook his head vehemently as his fingers curled into a fist. “Absolutely not.”

“Our Lord Father said much the same, in even lesser words.” Tyrion sighed, gesturing for Jaime to follow him. “Cersei’s been bristling like an angry cat all morning. One would think that her will has been thwarted in some way.”

Slowly, the knight followed his brother down the hallway, until they were out of sight of the guards that continued to guard Sansa’s door. There were rather more Red Cloaks than he had expected, he thought as he passed the men. From the looks of it, they were, each and every one, armed with crossbows.

“We can’t remain here can we?” Jaime asked, meeting his brother’s gaze. “Every minute we spend in the Red Keep, is another minute Sansa’s life is in danger.”

Tyrion shrugged helplessly, “Jaime I need you to listen to me and not lose your temper at what I’m about to say.”

The knight gazed expectantly at the smaller man as they stepped onto a secluded balcony. Bright sunlight streamed down upon the brothers, bathing them in much welcome warmth.

“Before the Battle of the Blackwater, Father wrote constantly to me, demanding that I marry Arya Stark as soon as I could manage. It was a ludicrous idea, so like the bravest of men, I ignored Tywin Lannister’s edict.” Tyrion laughed archly.

“Lady Arya was…is…little more than a child. Father’s entire reasoning for the suit, was that with Sansa Stark presumed dead, with the prospect of Robb Stark’s imminent defeat, and quite frankly, with the possibility that _you_ might get your head lopped off by the Young Wolf…Father had decided that his surviving son should own the dubious honour of wedding the only surviving daughter of Ned Stark. _Now_ of course, now _everything_ has changed…”

“Robb Stark’s imminent defeat? The man has won every single battle in this ridiculous war.” Jaime scoffed, before the rest of Tyrion’s words sank in. “Surely you don’t think he means now, to propose that Sansa should…”

“I do very much think so.” Tyrion nodded vigorously. Studying his brother’s mutinous expression, he asked mildly, “But isn’t this what you wanted? To marry the girl?”

“Have you gone quite mad?” Jaime hissed. “Do you understand why her father was murdered by our King? Or why we’re currently at war with her brother? The reasons are one and the same. Not only that, but she betrayed her own brother for the life of her sister, whom _we_ imprisoned and mistreated, and whom _we_ lost. What kind of man do you suppose I am, to force her to marry me now, at this juncture?”

Tyrion sighed. “Jaime, it wasn’t you who started this war, and it wasn’t you who lost her sister…and it certainly will not be you, who will force her to walk down that aisle.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not happening. I will not allow it.” The knight braced his arms against the low wall of the balcony.

“Captivity must have addled your memories of our Lord Father. What Tywin wants, he will have,” Tyrion stated flatly. “Especially with the both of you in his grasp, here, now.”

“Mad,” Jaime spat. “This is all mad.”

“Jaime…” Tyrion said gently, “You have to ask yourself if this is truly such a terrible thing.”

The knight refused to respond.

“You could take Sansa and retire to Casterly Rock, away from our sweet sister and her deranged son.”

The bitter irony of it all was not missed by Jaime. Tyrion’s words _sounded_ like everything he had wanted once, except for the fact that it was all just warped enough to make him feel sick to his stomach.

Were he to wed Sansa at the behest of Tywin Lannister, she would never escape the grasp of those who would exploit her for everything she was worth. Indeed, once Tywin _actually_ and _truly_ understood what being a Slayer meant, he would certainly travel to extreme lengths to secure her strength for his own uses.

Sansa would be a slave not to the Citadel or the Sept, but to his family; the knight knew it in his bones, that his father would seek to use her against his enemies at every turn.

“I would gladly take that woman to wife…but not like this. Never like this.” Jaime ground out.

“Good.” Tyrion said in a satisfied manner that irked Jaime to no end. Had his brother been testing his intentions towards Sansa? “Then perhaps we can discuss how we can get the both of you out of here in one piece. Chin up brother, the day’s not over. By the way, I had actually come all this way to inform you that our Lord Father has requested your presence in the Tower of the Hand.”

“Now?” Jaime asked in exasperation. “But…”

“I will visit with the Lady Sansa until such a time when you return, once she has been made decent for visitors.” Tyrion volunteered chivalrously, before breaking into a smirk. “Besides, it’s time I met the woman who stole you away from our sweet sister.”

Snorting in annoyance, the knight spun on his heel and left.

***

His father was not the only one in the Tower of the Hand. Cersei sat before Tywin, straight backed and furious.

“Jaime. Take a seat.” Tywin ordered, not looking up from where he sat, composing a letter.

“I don’t intend on staying long,” Jaime started, though he was aware protestations would do just about nothing. A small childish part of him insisted that he try anyway.

“Sit down.” His father commanded.

Growling, Jaime did as he was told, refusing to meet his sister’s sharp gaze.

“I understand that you summoned the Maester this morning, and he’s declared that the Lady Sansa is well on the road to recovery.” Tywin said after a moment, finally abandoning his task in favour of surveying his children.

“Why would I bother quantifying what you already know?” Jaime mused, leaning back insolently.

“I wasn’t asking, I was stating.” Tywin’s voice took on a note of irritation. Cersei shuddered very slightly under her silken robes. “I have called the both of you here, to discuss the future of House Lannister.”

“Oh?” Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “And what does Jamie have to do with it?”

“Everything.” Tywin looked at his son. “As I told your brother last night, he has been released from whatever oaths he took when he joined the Kingsguard. In light of what Lady Sansa has done for our family in recent days, and in light of the fact that he’s even pleaded with me for my assistance in asking for her hand…”

Jaime winced as his twin cast him a disbelieving glare.

“…I have decided that the right thing to do, is for us to extend Lady Sansa the protection of the Lannister name, by marrying her to Jaime.”

“She’s the daughter of a traitor!” Cersei hissed through her teeth. “Surely you don’t mean to sully our family’s legacy by allowing that little bitch to bear the next generation of Lannister children.”

“I would thank you to you consider your next words.” Jaime warned giving his twin a sideways glance. “You will not insult the Lady Sansa in my hearing, or indeed, ever again.”

“Our family owes her. She saved the life of my son.” Tywin continued as if the son in question hadn’t spoken. “She’s acquitted herself admirably.”

“She won’t be marrying me however.” Jaime said, looking his father in the eye. “After what our King – my _nephew_ – did to her father, and as I understand it, her sister, it is unlikely she will greet this offer with anything less than derision.”

It was worth trying to defy his father, if only to prove to himself that he was a grown man at the end of it.

“The manner in which she greets this betrothal with, is rather besides the point.” Tywin said calmly. “She will marry you. She hasn’t much of a choice. The King himself has ordered this; were she to try to flee to her brother’s side, she herself will be branded a traitor like her father before her.”

“The King ordered this?” Cersei demanded. “Or you?”

“Daughter, I suggest you calm yourself.” Tywin said sharply. “Jaime, you will marry Sansa. Preparations are already underway for a wedding that will take place on the morrow. If you try in any way to defy me in this, I have given strict orders to my guards that they are to fill her with crossbow bolts.”

He would do it too, Jaime realized as his own fury spiked. The guards at Sansa’s door were not to guard her from harm after all, but to keep her from escaping.

“Is she to be kept a prisoner for the rest of her life then?” he choked out even as his green eyes narrowed. “My… _wife_?”

“Not at all. You will get her with child, and you will do it again, and again. Once she has given us sons and daughters, she will do what any mother would – she will protect her children with her life.” Tywin said coldly. “I will hardly need guards pointing their weapons at her then, to see to it that she behaves herself.”

All Tywin needed was one son from himself and Sansa, Jaime understood with some disgust. The rest…they would all just be _leverage_.

“Why?” Cersei asked tremulously.

“Where would you like me to start? Because she is the key to the North, because I wish to see the family name survive, because she is extremely useful to us in more ways than that.” Tywin stared coldly at his daughter. “And because I swore to your brother months ago, that he would marry the Lady Sansa as he had so pleaded.”

Trust Tywin to utterly ruin what had once been a fond and desperate wish.

“As for you,” their father kept his gaze fixed on the Queen. “I have spoken with Lady Olenna, and we have agreed – now that your period of mourning for the King is over, it is time for you to do right by the Lannister name. You will marry Loras Tyrell as soon as Joffrey marries Margaery, and you will leave for Highgarden.”

A tremor of old anger rose in Jaime’s chest at the thought of Cersei marrying another man. Indeed, the woman herself trembled with barely concealed rage.

“I will not,” she declared in a half-whisper.

“You have on several occasions made great claims about your commitment to this family's future. Your role in that future is vital. Jaime will secure both the North and the Lannister name, and you will secure the Reach.”

“Father, don’t make me do this again. Please.” Cersei pleaded.

“Do you think you'll be the first person dragged into a sept to be married against her will?” their father questioned.

“You mean to treat me the way you plan to treat Sansa Stark, the daughter of the man who tried to ruin your house. You can’t just make Jaime and I obey your will simply because you have commanded us. We are not children,” The woman said as she rose to her feet. Jaime’s eyes widened in panic at her next words. “And I will not be sold like a broodmare for the sake of the family name – not again. I will do anything and everything to stop this.”

“What exactly do you mean by…” Tywin started.

“I'll tell everyone the truth.” Cersei threatened. Forcing himself to stay calm, Jaime watched her with feverishly bright eyes.

“What truth would that be?” Tywin asked coolly.

The Queen peered down her perfect nose at her own father.

“You don't know, do you? You never believed it. How is that possible? What am I saying? Of course it's possible. How can someone so consumed by the idea of his family have any concept of what his actual family was doing? We were right there in front of you and you didn't see us. One look in the past twenty years, one real look at your own children and you would have known.”

Jaime stared at his sister in slack-jawed shock.

“Everything they say is true. About Jaime and me.”

“Stop it.” Jaime found his voice at last. He had not expected Cersei to utterly lose her grip on reality the way she was doing just then; her method was guaranteed, without a doubt, to get them both exactly where they did not want to be.

“Why should I?” she turned on him now. “You want this too. How many times have you begged me to tell the world about us? You and I, we belong together and I’m tired of hiding it. You do not belong with the wolf bitch, and I do not belong with some green boy who still loves the shade of Renly Baratheon.”

The trouble was, she wasn’t wrong. There had been a time when all he had wanted was for Cersei to drop the charade of who they were to each other. Once, he had even imagined publicly claiming her to wife, that they might live as a true family with their children.

Everything Jaime had ever wanted was now being given to him, but all of it, twisted beyond recognition.

“Daughter, you have committed quite enough foolish deeds to last a lifetime.” Tywin started softly. “All the lies you propagated - they have only served to make the crown appear ignorant of the dealings of its own court. More than that however…do you truly think I’m stupid enough not to know why Sansa Stark lay on the very cusp of death all night, and why even now, she’s not fully herself? Do you understand what you could have _cost_ our family?”

Right up to that moment, Jaime would have said quite confidently that he could never have hated Cersei. Never. They were a part of each other from the moment they were conceived.

Yet as self-righteousness blossomed across Cersei’s beautiful face, as he confronted the truth he had been refusing to admit to even as Sansa lay dying in front of him, hatred began to take root in his heart.

“You will do as I command and you will marry whom I say you will marry, and put an end to the disgusting rumors about the both of you once and for all.” their father said with brutal firmness, addressing both brother and sister at once. “All of you, including Tyrion…you've disgraced the Lannister name for far too long.”

“Coercing young maidens to marry into the family that brutalized theirs…” Jaime spat. “What exactly do you think that implies about us?”

“I am giving you what you want.” Tywin retorted. “All of you, clamouring for things you should never have wanted…”

The twins stared at their father in disgusted silence.

“Out. Leave me.” Tywin commanded at last, sounding weary.

Holding his tongue, Jaime strode out of his father’s solar, intent only on returning to Sansa’s side where he belonged.

“Jaime.” Cersei called, her voice roughened by unshed tears.

The knight stilled his steps, hating that he could not resist his sister even now.

“Tell me you’re not going to go through with this.” she commanded as she closed the distance between them. “I understand that she’s beautiful, and young, but what you and I have…”

“Did you conspire with Pycelle to hurt Sansa?” Jaime asked, turning to look his sister in the eye. “I told myself that you wouldn’t. That there’s something inside you still, that remembered what it was to be decent, and kind. Cersei, _did you do this_?”

The way she blanched just then, was all the answer he needed.

“If you ever try anything like it again sweet sister, I will see to it myself that you will lose _everything_ you hold dear.” Jaime said softly. Reaching up with his right hand, his fingers wrapped themselves gently around the smooth column of her throat.

“I’ve already lost you.” she snarled, shifting to brush his hand away, only to find that he would not be moved. The man did not apply any true form of pressure whatsover, at least not that anyone passing would have seen. Before his eyes, Cersei transformed into something hideous and cruel as she glowered at him.

“Yes. You have.” he nodded curtly, taking note of her rage and her vitriol.

Releasing her at last, the knight strode swiftly towards the dungeons. There was one more score he needed to settle.

***

The place reeked of desperation and shit and piss. If he listened closely, even the stones betrayed the agonies suffered by those who had been left in the dark to wallow in their misery.

Pycelle sat, chained against the wall, head bowed and still. For a moment, Jaime wondered if someone had beaten him to it, and finished the deed for him.

But a rat skittered past, causing the fallen Grand Maester to startle.

“This fits you better than your solar.” Jaime commented as he drew close. “Being kept here with the vermin.”

“You.” Pycelle said almost tiredly. “What do you want?”

“A villa on the other side of the Narrow Sea perhaps. A goblet of Arbor Gold and a redhead in something that only the very generous can describe as clothing.” Jaime remarked, playing with his dagger.

“You think of yourself as some kind of tragic hero don’t you?” the old man asked. “And you imagine I’m some cackling old villain,”

“Not at all. I think you’re a lapdog that rolls over for any master that feeds you.”

“I used to care. So much. I’ve lived a long life Ser Jaime, how many Slayers do you think I’ve had in my care?” Pycelle asked, slumping backwards. “There’s been seven. Sansa - she’s my seventh Slayer.”

“Sansa’s not yours. Never was.” Jaime said immediately.

“I suppose you’re right in that,” the shackled man chuckled. “When I was given charge over my first Slayer, I did everything I could to protect her. I drilled her in lessons, I hired a sellsword to teach her the art of combat, I tended to her every wound…and when she fell anyway, I thought surely, this was how a father feels when their child perishes.”

The knight said nothing.

“The second one was worse, only because I was starting to understand that there is nothing I could have done to stop what was coming for her.” the old man sounded weary. “After that, it was a simply a matter of learning that the best thing I could do for my sanity, and perhaps even for the Slayers, was to stop giving a damn. Caring gave them hope, and hope made their passing even more painful.”

“Touching story.” the knight was unimpressed.

“Isn’t it?” the other man laughed again. “Before you kill me, and I’m sure that’s why you’re here, I need you to understand something, since you’re intent on becoming her new keeper.”

“I intend no such…”

“Listen to me. You could wipe out every last Sept, burn the Citadel to the ground and end the lives of every last one of us who administer to the line of Slayers, but you cannot keep her from her destiny. She is guided by something far greater than any King, something far more ruthless than any dragon. The dreams will pull her, and call her every night for the rest of her life…the demons will never stop coming. All these things will boil the blood in her veins until the day she dies.”

“That’s perfectly fine.” Jaime lied.

“Is it? A slave to the powers that be, you think that’s better?” the old man closed his eyes. “My first Slayer. Her name was Liza. No one remembers her, save for me. When you end my life, all memory of her will be wiped from this world. She died saving the city from a prophesied evil that rose in the bay beside which we sit.”

“What was the name of the Slayer that came before Sansa?” Jaime asked thoughtfully. The look of utter blankness on Pycelle’s face was all the answer the knight needed.

With a flick of his wrist, Jaime tossed his weapon towards the old man.

It made a thrumming noise as it planted itself in the ground, right between the Maester’s legs. The old man yelped in fear, betraying the panic under his previously calm exterior.

“I came here to kill you. You weren’t wrong.” he said quietly. “But I’ve changed my mind. Your story, it quite moved me. So here’s what’s going to happen…”

He crouched low and met the old man’s eyes, retrieving his weapon as he did so.

“I’m going to let you live the rest of your days, here, in this cell. The guards, they change them quite frequently, and eventually, none of them will remember your name. At times, they will forget to feed you, or to give you something - anything, really - to quench that burning thirst which likely, you're already feeling. Most of the time, you’ll wallow in your own filth. The less discerning of them…they may find… _use_ for you. I don’t imagine you’ll like any of it. No matter what happens however, your life will be in somebody else’s hands; from this moment on, your life is no longer yours...and when you die, no one will mourn you, or weep for you, or even bury you. The rats will gnaw at your bones until you’re truly the _nothing_ that you are.”

“Please…” the other man pleaded desperately as his fate was spelled out for him.

“I’m sure the girls you had in your care said that very word right before they were slaughtered.” the knight turned to leave. “Enjoy the rest of your days Pycelle. May they grant you some…perspective.”

Ignoring the man’s cries and shrieks of fury, Jaime left the cell, feeling for the first time that day, satisfied.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa finds out more about what happened to Arya in her absence.  
> In which there is random smut  
> In which there Sansa sasses the hell out of Tywin.

The handmaid brushed her hair with a lot less finesse than Sansa was used to. For one thing, she employed the hairbrush less like a comb, and more like a bludgeon. Reaching out, she made to grasp at the girl’s wrist, only for Shae to easily slip out of her reach, causing the Slayer to wince.

It still annoyed her that she had required the other girl’s help to dress herself. While she might be a highborn lady, born and raised, Sansa had spent the recent past seeing to her own needs. Being reduced to the state of a weak noblewoman did not suit her. In her mind, the young woman likened it to putting on a gown from her childhood, only to find that she had outgrown it in every possible way.

“The wounds on your neck. They’re familiar.” Shae said as she untangled yet another snarl in Sansa’s wet hair. “My parents, when I found them. They bore the same scars.”

There should have been no reason for her to feel guilty; she was one woman and the world was a large place. It wasn’t as if she could slay every vampire that ever feasted on the blood of the living.

“I’m sorry.” Sansa said anyway, willing her face to impassiveness. Thinking on the handmaid’s words, she frowned. “Who are your parents and where are you from?”

“I’m from Lorath.” Shae said shortly, and stopped speaking to Sansa altogether, focusing on the Slayer’s hair.

Looking at herself in the glass, Sansa barely recognized the woman who stared back at her. She looked a woman of five and thirty, rather than a girl on the edges of seventeen.

Someone knocked on the door, and a voice she’d only heard a few times before in her life politely asked for her audience. Before she could nod her assent at Shae, the handmaid had already left her side, to admit the man.

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion smiled apprehensively as he approached. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about.”

“No happier than I am, to be sure.” Sansa said wryly, looking at the open door. “Where’s…”

“Our Lord Father has asked to speak with Jaime. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Tyrion said. “Nothing short of a catastrophe could keep him from your side, I have a feeling.”

She couldn’t help it, but she could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

“From what I understand,” the shorter man said gently, moving to sit on a wrought iron chair. “The sentiment is mutual. I do hope you realize how indebted I personally feel, that you returned my brother safe and sound to the Capital.”

“As much as his wellbeing means everything to me, I’m afraid I had more than his safety on my mind when I betrayed Robb.” Sansa said stiffly, reminding herself that Tyrion, for all his sweet words, was still a Lannister, much like Cersei and Joffrey…and Jaime, though she couldn’t bring herself to place her lover in the same light.

“Shae will you be so kind as to give us the room?” Tyrion looked towards the handmaid. Sansa blinked at the girl beside her, suddenly catching a faint hint of something on the girl. Her lips twisted in a tiny smirk – the girl beside her did not just have Tyrion’s approval, but rather more than that. Quite a bit more.

Sansa’s heart beat a little lighter. Perhaps she needn’t wait that long for her full strength to return.

“But…” the girl said, sounding a little peeved. “It’s not proper to leave the Lady alone with only you.”

“Shae, there are a dozen guards within screaming distance, who will all converge upon this room to defend Lady Sansa.” Tyrion’s tone was amicable, but firm.

“They’re your men.” Shae pointed out.

“They’re my father’s men, and he barely needs an excuse to see to it that I was accidentally stabbed to death at least a dozen times.” Tyrion quipped.

In clear annoyance, the handmaid swept out of the room, as if she were the mistress of the castle.

“Who is she?” Sansa asked, as the door shut behind her.

“A woman of no importance to anyone else who isn’t me.” Tyrion replied smoothly. “My Lady, I came to you with the intention of letting you know that I highly doubt Lady Arya was abducted against her will by the Hound.”

That gave Sansa pause.

“Your sister was, by all accounts, no damsel requiring rescue. The first time she tried to escape, she made it all the way to the dungeons and freed her sparring teacher Syrio Forel. When we found her at the edge of the city, the blackguard had already abandoned her, leaving her with a stranger whom we immediately disposed of.” Tyrion explained, enjoying the look of surprise growing on the woman’s countenance.

“The next time she tried to escape, she not only killed a guard, but inflicted grave injuries on another. You should know that Joffrey had her soundly beaten in front of the court after each failed escape…”

The news didn’t exactly surprise the Slayer, but her fists tightened nonetheless.

“I put a stop to all those punishments the moment I arrived in the city. I would like you to remember that, when you regain the full spectrum of your…uh…abilities.” Tyrion said. “Gifts of which Jaime disclosed to myself and my father in the fullest of confidences last night. Before you blame him, you should know our father left him not much of a choice.”

“That’s what this place does. It robs people of their choices in exchange for silks and luxuries.” Sansa said bitterly, moving to sit across from Jaime’s brother.

“The lucky ones anyway,” Tyrion murmured. “Lady Sansa, there is no doubt in my mind that Arya left of her own accord with Sandor Clegane. She made it perfectly clear hundreds of times over, that she would rather have starved in the streets of King’s Landing, than endure another minute in the Red Keep.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s alive.” To be fair, the smaller man had given her more hope than she had anticipated possible.

“No, it doesn’t.” he agreed. “But I wanted you to understand that your sister was never helpless, and I have every reason to believe she continues to terrorize those who would seek to impugn on her person, wherever she is.”

Sansa couldn’t help but smile at Tyrion, who busied himself with the pitcher of wine between them.

“Now that I’ve evidently charmed you to my side of things, I wanted to speak with you about your intentions. That is, your intentions where Jaime is concerned...” Tyrion took a sip of his wine.

“My inten…my Lord, are you already drunk?” Sansa questioned, her blue eyes narrowing.

“Unfortunately not, though I can understand why you might think so.” Tyrion grinned. “Jaime is dear to me. And it’s always rankled me that the women in his life…one very particular woman actually…has treated him as no more than a treasured toy, to use and to break whenever she wanted.”

“What has that got to do with me?” Sansa asked warily.

“He loves you so much, last night when we thought you were going to breathe your last, my Lord Father and I both feared that Jaime would follow you to his own grave in short order.” Tyrion said, all traces of mirth disappearing. “Tywin didn’t need to say it, but I could see my fear reflected in Father's eyes. Tell me true – do you love Jaime?”

In her dismay at the news of Arya, in her fear for her own missing strength, Sansa had not stopped to consider what Jaime too must have suffered in the face of her ordeal.

“Perhaps it isn't wise of me to do so, or even right....but I love Jaime more than I've ever loved anyone." Sansa admitted without shame. "I would die for him, and indeed, I have killed for him."

"I forbid you from dying today...if it is _possible_ to forbid you to do anything." Jaime said from the doorway. Sansa had not heard him enter. "Though you might well kill me when you hear what I have to say next."

"I suppose it's past time for me to go..." Tyrion slid off his seat, only to stop at the sight of the older man gesturing for him to remain.

"My brother probably already knows, judging from a discussion we had earlier." Jaime strolled over to join the two occupants of the room, before pouring himself a very full goblet of wine. “Sansa, as I warned you, my father had me stripped of my White Cloak. And it appears my father has decided to ensure that our nuptials will take place tomorrow. Even now, the rest of the castle is bustling to ensure our blissful union goes off without a hitch.”

"This is surely a bad jape." Sansa pushed herself out of her seat with a little difficulty.

"It's certainly not very funny is it?" Jaime answered agreeably, after taking a large gulp from his goblet. "In case you were wondering, no, this is not what I wanted. Not like this."

"And if I refuse?" Sansa asked, blue eyes flashing.

"You can't." Jaime replied bluntly. "He's threatened to kill you. The men outside aren’t to guard you against those who would hurt you, but to keep you from leaving. I’m to get you saddled up with children, all of whom he intends to use as hostages to guard against our bad behaviour.”

“Tywin is predictable to a pinch." Tyrion looked miserable as he took in Jaime’s tidings. "I suppose you'd like my help getting the both of you out of this mess."

"Can you?" Jaime asked, quirking a brow at his brother.

"I'll see what a particular spider might be able to do.” the younger man looked dubious. "No promises however. None that I can offer sincerely."

Showing himself out, Sansa slowly moved to stand beside Jaime, who seemed determined not to look at her.

"Jaime, I am already a traitor to my brother…to marry you would…”

"I know it." he interrupted, setting his goblet down with a bang. "I see it, clear as day, what my father would have you do…would have me do at that. He’s forcing me to be complicit in this…this farce.”

Carefully, she wrapped her arms about his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. After a moment, he reached up to stroke softly at her hair, whilst tilting her chin upwards. "I swear I will get us out of this foul pit,"

Softly, his lips descended on hers, promising her both with his actions and words that he would protect her with everything he had to offer. As their kiss deepened, she curled her fingers against his chest, tugging lightly at his tunic.

"You know..." he said as he drifted past her lips. "In all the times we've coupled, we have never been in a place where you were the weaker of the two of us..."

"It's not as if..." she started breathlessly, only to be cut off by his lips descending upon hers once again. He was almost bruising in his intensity, as he easily swept her knees out from under her. Carrying her towards the bed, he deposited her carefully onto the soft mattress and climbed over her.

"You were saying?" he asked, tugging at the cord that held her dress together with a dangerous smile.

"It's not as if I've ever really resisted you," she pointed out teasingly.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Jaime..." she looked at him in confusion.

"Well do you?" he asked, leaning down and feathering kisses all down the column of her neck.

"Yes. Gods yes." she gasped, wrapping her arms around him to bring him closer exactly as she always did.

"Very good," he smiled against her skin, before snatching both her wrists and pinning them above her head. With his other hand, he gave the cord at her waist one final tug. Before she could think to protest, Jaime used the silken material to bind her wrists together above her head, before lashing them against the headboard through an iron slat.

"I'll make you pay for this," Sansa promised as she began to understand his intentions, squirming as she attempted to ignore the dampness already pooling between her legs.

“I’m counting on it.” he laughed, even as he peeled away the layers of her dress from her body, unwrapping her as one unwrapped a present. Running his fingers across her pale skin, he brushed his fingertips against the still-clothed underside of her breasts. “Look at you, all delectable and lovely…all for me…”

The man dipped low and suckled at her breasts through what thin silk still separated her from him. Unable to resist his ministrations, unable to stop him, Sansa arched towards his mouth as the sensations threatened to overwhelm her.

Moving at a leisurely pace, Jaime continued undressing her slowly, stopping at uncertain intervals to worship some freshly exposed patch of skin, sometimes eliciting breathy laughs, other times, causing her to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

When at last, she lay utterly naked and bound before him, the man rolled to the side to survey his handiwork. He himself was still fully dressed.

Sansa could count on one hand, the number of times she’d felt helpless. But not like this…never like this. As his green eyes studied her from head to toe, not a single inch hidden from his heated gaze, the woman found her hips rolling towards him outside of her conscious volition.

 _What an obscene sight she must have made…_ The very thought of how she must have appeared to Jaime just then, made Sansa even wetter, made her spread her thighs even wider without thinking.

“Seven hells…” he lifted his thumb to his lips, before bringing it down to rest against her exposed and dripping slit. “…how did I get so lucky?”

“If you don’t get yourself undressed and inside me soon…” she growled low in her throat.

“Be quiet.” he growled, thrusting his dampened digit inside of her, driving all thought from her mind. “You’re in no position to make any threats girl,”

Moving his strong hands to her waist, he flipped her onto her belly and raised her hips so that her bosom remained firmly planted against the mattress, though her arse was raised to the ceiling. Bare nipples scraped against the cotton beneath her, eliciting yet another moan from between her lips.

Sansa could hear as Jaime shucked his clothing at last, before his knees pushed her own apart, leaving her thighs once again, spread wide before his eyes. Graceful fingers plunged roughly into her cleft and slowly pumped in and out of her, curling insistently against her slick walls.

The woman attempted to squeeze her legs together for the sake of finding more friction, only for her lover to land a smack upon her bottom.

“Look at you, all desperate and needy,” he whispered, bending over her so his naked chest brushed against her back. Wet fingers withdrew themselves from her soaking quim and reached up to tug gently at her damp hair. “Are you my good girl?”

“Yes…” she hissed as his cock finally slid into her.

“Are you mine?” he nipped the base of her neck. “Mine and only mine? Tell me and mean it…”

“Yours.” she gasped as he increased his pace against her. “Yours Jaime, only yours…”

“I’m not convinced you know your place, but I have all day to teach you…” he sounded smug as he stopped his movements abruptly. Before she could protest, warm lips kissed at the spot between her legs, lapping and sucking until Sansa found herself biting the pillow under her in an effort not to cry out loud.

“You are so very sweet,” he murmured, his breath brushing against her overheated skin. “I suppose you’re close now…”

“Yes. Please…” she pleaded as his fingers toyed with her clit.

“Begging already.” Jaime’s laugh was low and filthy. “What will I have you reduced to by the end of the afternoon?”

Sansa had no idea if she ought to laugh or cry at his deviousness.

***

By the time they lay against each other, sated and sleepy, the sun was past its zenith, and the sky outside was the window heralded the coming of dusk.

“Father wants me to sleep apart from you until we’re properly wed.” Jaime said, breaking the silence. “Something about decency.”

“Imagine if people knew exactly how indecent we are,” Sansa yawned, tamping down the same guilt that filled her each time after Jaime and herself had made love.

“I think the Lannister men-at-arms outside your door have an idea,” he said, a trace of a grin darting across his handsome face. Blushing, Sansa would have ducked her head into the crook of his shoulder but for the fact that he stopped her with a touch. “Sansa, I hate to point this out, but you and I have grappled all over the Seven Kingdoms. Don’t you think its time you stopped being shy as a maid about this whole thing”

There was nothing she could have said that wouldn’t hurt him. There was no way she could tell him of the shame she still felt in her very soul, at the fact that she willingly shared her body with the man who had indirectly caused the death of her father. What must the men out there think of her, she wondered?

But still. Her affection for him outweighed all her misgivings at the end, as it always did. Instead of answering him with words, Sansa shifted, and kissed him sweetly, shivering again as she tasted both of them on his lips. His hands had tangled themselves in her thick tresses, intent on pursuing something further, when the summons came to their door.

***

The Septa who helped her dress and followed her out the door was not one whom she had ever met. If Sansa thought that perhaps the woman would lecture her on her spectacular failures as a Slayer, the idea was diminished, the moment she realized the Holy Woman looked perpetually on the urge of falling apart from nerves alone. Her responses to any and all questions appeared to be limited to frightened squeaks and to nervous hums.

The fear of something far worse than the will of the Gods had been drilled into the woman, that much was certain, and if the young woman was forced to guess, she had an idea who was capable of such a thing.

As a coterie of Lannister guardsmen dogged her steps across the palace courtyards, Sansa couldn’t help but think of the cage she had found Jaime in, where he had been bound and trapped, the borders of his world reduced to whatever her brother had decided. Though she herself was currently held in admittedly lavish conditions, the young woman recognized a cage when she saw one.

Jaime had been all but dragged away by his father’s men, at the insistence of a hapless steward who had brought Tywin Lannister’s summons to the pair.

“She must be made presentable to the Hand of the King where you have both been summoned.” the balding man said reasonably, if not nervously.

“You say ‘if’ as if she had a choice,” Jaime stated, defiantly staring down his nose at the intruders.

“Ser Jaime, we will bring the Lady safe and sound to the Hand’s solar.” the steward had been unable to keep the tremor from his voice. “In fact, Lord Tywin was extremely clear on the fact that her safety was paramount.”

“Ser Jaime, I’m sure I will be in good hands.” Sansa had sighed in resignation, remembering her manners as she spoke.

There had been more defiant protestations from Jaime, but none of it made a difference. It was clear they would not prevail in this battle against Tywin, and Sansa had not the energy to pit herself against his father just then.

Thus it was that she found herself wearing some confection tailored for another woman, and hastily and clumsily adjusted to fit her body. In another time, she might have enjoyed the white lace and flowing skirts; she might have admired how the bodice made her look almost delicate in an ethereal way.

All she understood as she entered the Tower of the Hand however, where her own family had resided until the moment her father had been betrayed, was that she resembled some helpless maiden, cowering at the hand of those would sought to hurt her.

Passing through the hallways, Sansa could not help but wince at the memory of her father’s men, splayed out in death all over the cold floor. The last time her footsteps had traced the corridors, the blood of Stark Loyalists had splattered the walls in gruesome swaths.

Hardening her heart, knowing that it wouldn’t do for Tywin Lannister to see her as some scared, grieving girl, Sansa straightened her back and lifted her chin, allowing herself to be presented to the Hand as they entered his chambers.

“Very good,” Tywin stated, nodding approvingly as he arose from his seat. “The rest of you may leave us.”

Just like that, the Slayer found herself alone with the Hand of the King; the man who seemed to govern the lives of everyone around him with a steely, ruthless hand.

“Lady Sansa,” the man began. “I owe you a debt.”

“If this is about Jaime, you owe me nothing.” she said curtly. “I would have done it for him alone, even if my sister had not been held ransom - not of course, that your people guarded her with any care.”

She supposed nobody had ever addressed the man as boldly as she had just done. And if they did, she rather doubted that they did so for long. Fighting down a shiver of pure fear, Sansa forced herself to remember who she was.

That is, the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, sister to the King in the North. She owed it to her father and her brother to stand strong - for what had she left to lose? They had taken her family and her strength. The only thing she had left to give was her life.

“You are correct that it is about my son.” Tywin nodded, betraying nothing in tone or expression as he slowly strolled towards her, hands clasped behind his back. “And you are not at all wrong about how we saw to the care of Lady Arya. We should not have let her slip away as we did, and the fact that we do not know where she is, or if she still lives - it is hardly what I’d term acceptable.”

Of all the responses she had received, Sansa had not expected Jaime’s father to agree with her so readily.

“My Lady, no doubt you assume the Lannisters are all cruel, unjust brutes who enforce their will on any and all whom they consider their enemies,” Tywin stopped before her. “And you aren’t wrong to believe so. The is almost nothing I wouldn’t do, when it comes to defending my family and our legacy. But at the same time, you must at least realize I’m not an unreasonable man.”

“Must I?” she asked, fighting the temptation to quell under his steady gaze. Sansa had a feeling that if she had never been called as a Slayer, she would have folded long ago under the man’s unwavering scrutiny.

“You saved my son and brought him back to me. While at the same time, your sister, who had been in our care, was abducted by a man who was a Lannister guardsman.” Tywin stated solemnly. “The longer I think on it, the more I see that we have become very much indebted to your family.”

“You intend to repay me by forcing me to marry your son.” Sansa observed coldly.

“Forcing you?” Tywin chuckled as finally, he turned to a side table where a carafe sat, amidst piles of food. “I intend to offer you the _protection_ of our name. From what I understand both from Jaime and from those around you, the only reason the two of you consider this a coerced union is because of some innate stubbornness the both of you seem to share. You love him do you not?”

It wasn’t as if she could refute _all_ of his words, she realized in annoyance as he poured for himself, a flagon of ale.

“She does, but choosing for her isn’t fair.” Jaime’s voice cut through the silence. The man stood at the doorway, glaring at his father.

“You use the terms ‘choosing’ and ‘fair’ as if they meant anything.” Tywin asked, quirking a brow towards his son. “Lady Sansa was chosen by some higher power to be a Slayer, a hero of the masses, despite her express wishes. While you - you chose a path of nobility, only to be cast into the role of a villain despite your best intentions. Surely the two of you must see now that choice is simply an illusion.”

“Your philosophical ramblings are, as always, filled with such cheer and hope.” Jaime deadpanned.

To Sansa’s delight, Tywin looked as if he just might lose his composure.

“I summoned the both of you here for a reason. You may choose to converse with me like civilized people, or you may stand and glare while I eat my supper. You wanted choices - choose.”

For a moment, Sansa was tempted to tell him exactly where he could shove his supper.

“I choose to glare.” she said pithily, crossing her arms.

The Hand of the King stared at her in frustration.

“The wild tales I have heard of your calling over the course of two days from the mouths of not one, but both of my sons are all so ludicrous, I am forced to conclude that they are all true. They say you fight for, and defend the living against the demons that would take us.” Tywin shook his head. “Which would make it seem as if the fate of the living is currently in the hands of a child who will not see sense even when it has been offered to her on a platter.”

“Currently, thanks to the Grand Maester, it is in no one’s hands at all.” Sansa said smoothly, tossing her hair in contempt. Close by, Jaime’s eyes darted worriedly between herself and his father. “As nobody is slaying any demons, likely, we’re all going to die.”

Tywin and the Slayer glared at each other unrelentingly, until at last, Jaime cleared his throat in attempt to break the tension.

“Father, what is it you wanted to say?” her betrothed asked, sounding a tad miserable.

Blinking, Tywin turned back to his ornately carved desk and gestured that the two should follow. Against her innate inclinations, Sansa found herself curious as she caught sight of two open cases laying on the polished wooden surface.

“Lady Sansa, your father’s execution was never the intention.” Tywin started without ceremony, choosing to ignore the flash of pain in her eyes. “With his passing, he left behind his sword. Ice, I believe he called it. For all his failings, Lord Eddard Stark was a strong man, and few after him were capable of lifting his weapon, save for Ilyn Payne, and I would never award a man such as he, a gift such as Ice.”

“If you did, don’t for a second believe he would have had it for long.” Sansa heard herself declaring. She meant it too - too many lines had been crossed, and she would have slain her father’s executioner, had he had the gall to parade about with Ice.

“Regardless,” Tywin cast her a wary look as he stood aside.

Everything was suddenly forgotten as Sansa gazed within the two velvet-lined boxes. Two matching Valyrian swords lay side-by-side, both of them equal in beauty, both of them as deadly as the other. Intricately carved scabbards glimmered softly beside the swords, themselves confections of wonder.

Both of them resembled perfectly, the blade she wielded nightly in her dreams, as she stood against a cold, dead King, awaiting her in the North.

“I had your father’s sword reforged into twin blades. I had intended to give one to Jaime, and the other to Joffrey…but. It occurred to me yesterday, that the one who truly deserves to wield such a blade, should be none other than the woman who risked her life for my son. The fact that she so happens to be Ned Stark’s daughter…”

The two men watched as the Slayer drew close, looking as if she had forgotten that she wasn’t alone. Her hands hovered above the pommel of one of the blades, knowing that if she touched it, it would immediately feel like it belonged to her…

“Take it.” Tywin said softly, observing her reactions closely.

Her fingers closed around the pommel, and with some difficulty, she raised the sword with both hands.

The fact remained that she was still weakened from what serum Pycelle had fed her, and already, she could feel her wrists beginning to strain from the weight of the blade…but still, she could feel as the fey magic in her blood began to flow freely once again, replenishing her second by painful second.

“Careful,” Jaime said worriedly, coming around to hold her steady.

“I’m alright,” she said softly. “This is mine. This has always been mine.”

Tywin said nothing, though he wore an uncomfortable expression upon his countenance. It was one thing to be told she was a mystical warrior, and another to comprehend a certain facet of the truth with his own eyes.

Narrowing her gaze, Sansa moved away from Jaime and swung the blade once, and then again.

Her grip held, though she was still shaky. A wolfish grin graced her lips.

Clad in her snow-white dress whilst holding up a mighty sword, Sansa had no way of knowing that the men who beheld her just then, experienced a twist of apprehension in their guts, coupled with an unexpected sense of awe.

Not that she would have cared either way. The voice of every Slayer that came before her echoed in her mind reminding her of who…of _what_ she was - and they were loud.

“The sword belongs to House Lannister.” Tywin grunted, collecting himself. “But as you are to marry Jaime…yes. It is now yours. My son, as for you…”

Turning, she watched as Jaime reached out for his own gift. Swinging it with far greater ease than she had, Sansa grinned as she observed the knight’s natural deadly skill.

“The best swords have names.” Jaime smirked down at her.

“Shard.” she said almost immediately, looking again to her new weapon.

“I dub mine Bane.” he lay the sword in the crook of his left arm. “Ned Stark’s blade, to defend Ned Stark’s daughter - it will be as a bane to all her enemies.”

“The two of you are utterly stupid if you think you shouldn’t be wed.” Tywin said bluntly, trying to hide his satisfaction as he surveyed the couple before him. “Now that you have accepted my gifts, perhaps it is not out of the question that we share a meal?”

Picking up its sheath, Sansa slid her new weapon away and sighed. It would be churlish, she supposed, to refuse him.

***

The meal passed, and with it, more revelations from the world, tidings which she had missed as she travelled about Westeros, away from society.

It seemed that her brother suffered not only her own betrayal, but that of Theon Greyjoy. Hearing now that her ancestral home had been taken by the Pykemen almost sent Sansa running for the door, were it not for Jaime’s firm grip on her hand.

“Sansa, for all your gifts, you would be a fool to ride North now to confront the men who took your father’s castle,” Tywin cautioned.

“He’s taken my brothers.” she said forlornly, the food before her already forgotten.

“Had I been your brother’s advisor, I would have reminded Robb Stark of the fact that the Greyjoys have never been a friend to the Crown, or anyone else for that matter.” the Hand of the King said quietly, picking at his meal. “They are, almost without exception, untrustworthy scum who take too much pleasure in reaving. If it comforts you, my sources tell me that your siblings live, though it remains to be seen for how long.”

“My father sheltered him, fed him, even allowed him to master swordplay in our very yard. Jeyne had fancied herself in love with him…” Sansa was unable reconcile it all in her head. That Theon should have turned on her family as he did…he had been as a brother to her, while Robb had trusted him almost as much as as he had trusted Jon.

“Sansa, you are to be my good-daughter.” Tywin put aside his cutlery. “Consider that I would lend you my men, that you may lead them North and take back Winterfell in the name of the Starks. Jaime will ride by your side, and we will have vengeance on those who have betrayed your family.”

Beside her, Jaime shifted irritably.

“Do you disagree on the strategy I am laying out?” Tywin asked, turning to look upon his son, sensing the displeasure emanating from the knight. “After tomorrow, Sansa will be family. And you know how we treat with those who would do wrong by our family.”

Shutting her eyes, Sansa did her best to pretend away the verbal sparring that was brewing over her head.

She was beginning to understand better, the reasons Tywin so desperately wanted to seal the union between herself and Jaime, and it had nothing to do with Jaime, or lending her his name as protection.

As the eldest living Stark daughter she had a strong claim to the North, now more than ever before. Likely, the Northerners were losing trust in Robb even as they spoke - the King in the North had all but given Winterfell to their enemies, from what it sounded like.

From what she knew of her own brother’s army, Robb had demons in his ranks, a fact that he was unaware of. Combined with Tywin’s offhand comment about his ‘sources’, it would seem as if her brother was losing control of his men by the day.

Why would the Northern Host, all of whom valued valour and strength above all else, follow a weak Stark who couldn’t maintain his own stronghold, or control his own bannermen?

Sending her to retake her childhood home from the Ironborn with a Lannister force would be an easy victory for Tywin; it would give him control of lands both sides of the Neck through her very presence, regardless if Robb lived or not.

With the right show of strength, Sansa might yet win the coerced loyalties of the Northern host…even if in their hearts, she would always be considered a traitor. And she would be one at that - in the North, she would be nothing more than Tywin Lannister’s puppet as he ruled in truth over her people.

No doubt, Jaime had understood all of that, which was exactly why he seemed intent on putting a stop to the wedding. Not that either of them had a choice, as his father had so helpfully pointed out.

Regardless what either of them had to say, Tywin would see to it that his armies rode North, with herself and Jaime at the helm.

The truth was, Sansa had thought that the knight secretly took pleasure in the thought of publicly claiming her to wife. As she observed the hateful glare Jaime was serving to his father however, the woman realized how much she had maligned him.

“My Lord, your kindness this night is well appreciated,” Sansa rose abruptly, feeling strangely dizzy. “I’m afraid I have to take my leave for now…I’m not feeling altogether well.”

Clutching Shard tightly in her hands, she fled for the door, barely hearing it as Jaime hailed after her worriedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the smut? I think?


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate is my second favourite word.
> 
> Jaime meets Tomas.  
> Sansa makes a new enemy.  
> Sansa threatens Joffrey (that little sh*t)
> 
> It's rather silly

It was testament to her state of health, that the Lannister guardsmen tracked her every step with no difficulty. By the time she reached the main entrance of the Tower of the Hand, she was once again, flanked by men caped in red.

Stepping into the courtyard, she started in the direction of her chambers, her new sword still clasped tightly at her side.

As they group rounded a corner, Sansa noticed to her dismay that she was not alone in the open space. To her relief however, the women at the head of the small company walking in her direction were none of them, women she had ever met.

That relief was short lived.

“A beautiful maiden bearing a fearsome weapon. Unless I’m much mistaken, you must be Sansa Stark.” a stately old dame declared as the distance closed between them.

Perhaps her name was written on her forehead, Sansa thought wryly as a lifetime of ingrained courtesies caused her to drop to a curtsey without having to think about it.

The young woman on the dame’s arm exclaimed excitedly, “It is true what they say then, that you are a warrior princess!”

“I’m not a Princess,” Sansa blurted out.

“Of course not, but in that white gown, waving a great big sword, we’d be hard pressed to think of you as anything else,” the younger woman said with a large smile. “She’s quite different from the Lady Brienne, isn’t she Loras? In truth, I had thought perhaps that they would be as peas in a pod…”

A handsome knight in a white cloak grinned; there was something unpleasant in his smile. “Different, but for the better, certainly.”

It was horrid, being reminded of how utterly awful every single person in the Red Keep was capable of being, Sansa thought with distaste, as the crowd before her studied her like she was some oddity to be scrutinized.

Close by, a steward cleared his throat. “Lady Sansa, you have the pleasure of being presented with…”

“Oh do sod off.” the dame waved her hands in irritation. “This wittering young lady is Lady Margaery of the Reach - King Joffrey’s betrothed. And I am her doddering grandmother, the Lady Olenna.”

“We will be family soon Lady Sansa,” Margaery said, stepping forwards and grasping boldly at Sansa’s free hand. “You will be my Aunt, and I’m looking forwards to hearing all about your adventures, rescuing Ser Jaime and all that…”

“We’re already hearing about it. The singers at dinner won’t stop singing of your brave deeds. A welcome change from the Rains of Castemere, mind.” Lady Olenna rolled her eyes.

“I still absolutely look forwards to hearing of it directly from the Lady Sansa herself.” Margaery said cheerfully. “But judging from the look of the man rushing to your rescue as we speak…Ser Jaime, I presume…it will not be tonight that I hear the tale.”

Doing her best not to shudder in relief, Sansa smiled weakly. She had no energy left in her, to summon up more empty courtesies and manners just then.

“Margaery, when you’re the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I’m sure you’ll hear lots of stories from every corner of Westeros.” Lady Olenna sounded a little bored as she said this.

It was unwise of her, but Sansa couldn’t help what she said next.

“The Seven Kingdoms? I’m fairly certain my brother currently holds a large portion of some of those Kingdoms.”

The speed in which Lady Olenna’s gaze chilled told Sansa she had made herself an enemy. Likely, a formidable one at that.

“I hear he’s giving away your land if anything.” Lady Olenna said sharply. “I’m tired. It’s time we retire. Goodnight Lady Sansa, Ser Jaime - we will see you at your wedding tomorrow.”

“If you will permit me, I will be happy to attend you in the morning,” Margaery said, seeming to forgive the slight immediately, tightening her hand over Sansa’s. The Slayer was not fool enough to think the girl sincere, yet at the same time, she couldn’t help but find herself smiling genuinely at the future Queen.

“I would be honoured…your Grace,” she said, meeting Margaery’s eyes.

“I’m not Queen yet.” she smiled. “Until the morning, Lady Sansa,”

The knight beside her bowed slightly.

Taking her arm, Jaime and Sansa, with the entirety of the Lannister men-at-arms, wended their way back to the chambers they were keeping her in. The Slayer could almost hear her betrothed’s silent recriminations, both for her sudden withdrawal from his father’s presence, and for her loose tongue in the presence of the Tyrells.

Unlike the dangers of the forests, moors and marshes outside of King’s Landing, the pitfalls of the Red Keep were far less obvious, but often, just as deadly.

As they were shown into their rooms, one guard in particular followed them inside, shutting the heavy door firmly behind him. The man had swept from the back of the party to the front, as they entered her chambers.

“We have no need of your protection in here,” Jaime spoke sharply, turning to chastise the guard, even as Sansa cursed herself for not seeing, nor sensing it sooner.

She cursed Pycelle for his callousness, and cursed the Citadel and the Sept for enforcing their archaic practices on their Slayers.

“Tomas.” she said, dread rising in her heart as she drew her sword, hating how her arm shook.

In the darkness, interrupted only by the faint light of the fireplace, she could hear as Jaime drew Bane from its sheath.

“Hello to the both of you,” the vampire said, looking amused in the dim light, though she noted the sincere concern in his gaze as his dark eyes took in her appearance. “Slayer, I heard you were savaged but…”

“Stay away from her.” Jaime growled, sword raised.

“…I hadn’t realized the extent of the truth.” the vampire finished as he swept close to her, not acknowledging her betrothed in the slightest as he did so. “You’re not well are you?”

“Are you deaf?” the knight asked moving to her side.

Tomas reached out and touched her bite wounds, uncaring of the knight’s threatening posture or indeed, Jaime’s mounting rage at the other male’s boldness. “What happened to you?”

“The _Cruciamentum_.” she found herself telling him even as she flinched away from his touch. There was a flash of something in Tomas’s dark eyes that might have been hurt, but she did her best not to acknowledge it.

Jaime had his sword against Tomas’s offending wrist now; the knight’s jaw worked rapidly under his skin, and his fury was palpable.

“And what do you think you’re going to do Kingslayer?” Tomas asked, eyeing the knight in distaste. “You think you’re going to be the one to stop me? You aren’t even capable of protecting her.”

“It was one of yours that savaged her” Jaime said tightly.

“Not all the vampires in this city are mine.” Tomas said coldly.

“Does it matter?” Jaime snarled. “If you think I’ve forgotten what you did to Sansa...”

“I did it to get her attention. I didn’t kill her, and I knew her wound would have healed quickly. Put your stick away Kingslayer. I didn’t come to fight.” Tomas replied.

To nobody’s surprise, Jaime did no such thing.

“Your logic is bloody and brutal as ever and someday, I will have my satisfaction. Clearly it’s not today. Why are you here?” Sansa asked, lowering her weapon for all the good it meant.

“Your Spider uses more than his little birds when he requires eyes in the Capital.” Tomas snorted. “He’s informed me of your need to escape. Slayer, I told you, I would help you take your revenges if you wanted…my promise stands.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles.” the Slayer sounded tired. “Jaime and I require assistance of a different sort.”

“Is it true then, that you and your Kingslayer are to be wed tomorrow?” the vampire spoke as if the man in question was not standing right there. “If it is, you are certainly not the picture of a blushing, blissful bride.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Jaime panned. “You’re a dead, soulless creature with no concept of what is right.”

“If that’s supposed to hurt my feelings, I assure you, you failed.” Tomas said silkily.

“Will the both of you please shut up?” Sansa growled, at the end of her patience. “Tomas, someday you’ll explain to me why you desperately needed my help, when clearly you have access to the Red Keep. Again, today is not that day.”

“My plans were always simple, but for you, my sweet, I would have thrown them into depths of the sea,” Tomas said easily, seeming to take perverse pleasure in riling Jaime’s jealousies. “Regardless, I came to inform you that tomorrow night, after your farce of a wedding, as you feast on enough food to feed the entirety of Flea Bottom, there will be a diversion during which you’d be led to a ship, ready to take you East.”

“After the wedding?” Jaime frowned. “That’s pointless…”

“No, it isn’t.” Sansa shook her head vehemently. “As long as we’re gone, your father cannot make me betray my family any further than I already have. He cannot enforce his rule over the North, using me as he plans to do,”

The knight’s jaw twitched in anger at the reminder of his father’s true intentions.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Jaime asked the vampire, green eyes narrowed.

“You don’t know that you _can_. That’s why it’s called ‘trust’ you idiot.” Tomas rolled his eyes.

“He’s not an idiot.” Sansa said, raising her blade and pointing it at the demon’s neck once again. “And I don’t want to go East. I need to go North.”

There was a moment of silence, as the two males finally met each other’s eyes in grudgingly shared concern.

“Why?” Tomas asked quietly. “There is nothing for you there. Everyone here in the Capital knows your family has lost Winterfell. The King has not been shy in spreading word of your brother’s failures.”

“It’s not Winterfell…” Sansa hesitated, wondering how much she ought to share, and then deciding there was no reason why she shouldn’t tell him. “Old evil rises North of the Wall Tomas. It’s coming for all of us. Even you.”

“How do you…”

“Trust me.” the Slayer said softly.

The vampire studied her carefully. “Let me come with you. I would fight by your side…”

Jaime chortled contemptuously at the notion. “So you may feast on her when she least expects it of course.”

“Kingslayer, you are truly starting to annoy me.” the demon said flatly.

“As much as I hate to agree with a demon, perhaps it makes more sense for us to leave for a city where no one knows who we are.” Jaime turned to Sansa, ignoring the vampire.

Something hard settled across the Slayer’s brow.

“Tomas, your place is here. Someone has to help the helpless and fight the good fight…I certainly haven’t been much use at all, in the service of King’s Landing.” Looking at the carvings etched into her blade, the Slayer concluded in a cold, dead voice, “I have a war to win. Or at least, I will die trying to win against what awaits us all, in the cold and the dark.”

The vampire nodded slowly, unhappily, before he wended his way towards the open window.

With one booted foot placed against the ledge, the demon turned and addressed Jaime, meeting the knight’s glaring eyes as he did so.

“I trust you did what was necessary? That is, against the men and women who administer such trials upon the Slayers?”

“The Grand Maester will live.” Jaime said gruffly, lowering his blade only very slightly. “Not well however. With any luck, it’ll be a long life yet. Feel free to pay him a visit in the Black Cells however - feel free to take your time as a matter of fact.”

Nodding in satisfaction, Tomas threw himself out the window, down to the ground far, far below.

***

Sansa awoke to her wedding day, fighting off the vestiges of sleep and strange dreams of dead blue eyes. Beside her, Jaime stirred, and for a moment, the young woman thought to make a quip about how unlucky it was, for him to see the bride before the wedding.

Before she could get a word out however, the man tugged her towards him and kissed her roughly, brushing his hardness against her thigh.

The Slayer would have happily conceded to his wishes, had voices not converged at her door, announcing the arrival of a milieu of people.

“If we’re very, very quiet, perhaps they’ll think we’re dead and go away.” Jaime sighed in annoyance. The man had refused to leave her room in a small act of petty defiance against his father’s wishes - an act she fully supported. She supposed they could have both handled the situation with maturity and grace but…

Why should they?

There was furious knocking now, upon the heavy wooden doors.

“Let’s for a day, pretend I’m not marrying into a family that’s currently trying to kill my own.” Sansa sighed. “And pretend your lousy son didn’t kill my father, or torture my sister.”

“Please tell me you have something nice to say at the end of whatever it is you’re trying to say.” Jaime said miserably, his ardour completely lost.

“Let’s try to remember that we did pursue marriage once. And we do still love each other.” Sansa smiled, and to her surprise it barely felt forced. “When we leave after the ceremony, all the little conspiracies will fall by the wayside once again, and we will simply be us. Albeit, you’ll be my Lord Husband, and I’ll be your Lady Wife…”

“That is, if your fanged friend doesn’t eat us.” Jaime rubbed at his face. “I don’t trust him.”

“It goes against everything within me to do so - but I do. I trust him. He’s had plenty of opportunities to kill me,” Sansa confessed. “Instead, all he’s done is shown me a face of the city too many ignore.”

“When we’re outside the Capital, you and I are going to have a very long discussion about how close you’ve allowed this…man…to get to you.” Jaime’s green eyes flashed as he grasped possessively at her waist. “The way he looks at you - he’s got more on his mind than blood. And the truth is, I didn’t see you fighting him off, exactly.”

“Jaime,” Sansa murmured. “I love you, and you are the only man on my mind.”

Not exactly re-assured, Jaime nodded reluctantly. It spoke volumes of how well the man knew her, to note the small lie in her voice.

“If you’ll recall, I’ve killed for you.” she added. “And I will kill for you again, if anyone thinks to threaten you.”

“Aye.” Jaime smiled a sharp grin of his own. “Have I told you how much I appreciated your…”

“Lady Sansa we must get you ready!” someone shouted quite impatiently now.

Sighing, Sansa crashed her lips against Jaime’s praying desperately that their plans would go off without a hitch.

***

Patiently, Sansa allowed handmaids to prod and push at her as they pulled a gown she’d never seen before over her thin frame.

Surely, she could endure a dress fitting if Rickon and Bran could endure captivity in their own home...

No, it was too dangerous to think on it. To think of them, helpless and small and frightened. If she thought on it too long, she would not be able to focus on the greater risks at stake.

If she did not make her way past the Wall, if she did not destroy the ancient danger that she knew, was amassing his power even now, everyone she loved would be doomed, without exception.

Of late, her dreams had taken on new urgency. The Night King marched, towards a Wildling hamlet...and Jon. She saw him, facing down the might of the demon.

In her dreams, she saw him fall. The hope of the world was far thinner than anyone guessed, and the day was growing short. There was no time, she knew with despair, to see to the lives of her family.

How much time had she already wasted, in her fool’s mission to save Arya? She ought to have taken Jaime, and ridden North rather than South.

Close by Margaery gushed enthusiastically over the colour of the dress, and how it complemented the colours of her hair.

“Red and gold,” Margaery sighed, surveying her from the side. “It’s as if you were born to be Lady Lannister.”

“Oh,” Sansa looked thoughtful as another woman twisted at her hair. “I haven’t considered that.”

No doubt, Tywin would be livid once he discovered the both of them gone, and likely, he would seek to punish her for it. The thought of thwarting him made her smile in satisfaction, which Joffrey’s betrothed took for happiness at her change in title.

“You’re very lucky, to love Ser Jaime as you do, and marry him at that.” Margaery said softly, eyeing critically, the way Sansa’s curls fell about her face. “I understand from Joffrey that this…romance…started even before you arrived in King’s Landing.”

The way the other young woman said it, the Slayer doubted very much, Joffrey’s choice of words when it came to describing what she shared with Jaime.

“Not quite.” Sansa said breezily. “Not until we got within the walls of the city. And then it was all just…downhill from there, depending on how one looks upon the whole thing.”

Smiling radiantly, the future Queen pretended not to hear the implications in what the bride was telling her. However, she did murmur very softly, “When I am Queen, things will change. I will see to it they change.”

Looking around to ensure they weren’t being overheard, Sansa clasped Margaery’s hands in her own, squeezing gently.

“My Lady, that’s not how the Red Keep works.” she said very seriously, looking into startled brown eyes. “This place will take your best intentions and twist them slowly into shapes you’ve never even dreamed of. There will come a day you won’t know which way is up nor down.”

“I…” Margaery blinked, though she did not pull away. “I am capable of facing this place.”

Before Sansa could respond in what she knew would be a futile warning, a herald announced the arrival of her soon-to-be good brother.

“My lady, you are certainly a sight to behold,” Tyrion said from the open door where he awaited her, a rakish smile creasing his scarred countenance. “I might have to fight my brother for your hand.”

“You’re far too kind my Lord,” Sansa curtsied. She still not know quite what to make of Jaime’s brother, other than the fact that he seemed rather sane by Lannister standards. Even her own lover carried with him, a certain dark ruthlessness his sister and father both possessed.

“Kindness has nothing to do with it.” Tyrion sighed. “In another life, I would have courted you and won you under the noonday sun of King’s Landing.”

“You assume too much,” Sansa teased. “Perhaps I would have been the one vying for your affections against the charms of the other ladies of the court.”

“Jaime is a lucky, lucky man.” Tyrion marvelled, taking her small hand. “I came to fetch you to the Sept.”

“Oh…” Sansa looked about her, before her gaze fell squarely upon her sword, leaning by the door. “I would…”

“You can’t possibly carry that with you my Lady,” Margaery laughed. “Besides, what harm could befall you here? You are protected on all sides.”

Tyrion cast Joffrey’s intended a strange look, before he reached out and cradled the weapon to him. “I’ll see to it your arms are close at hand…should my brother fail to protect you from the villaine that fill this castle, you will not be deprived.”

As they walked slowly, side by side, he added very softly, “I will have this for you when it is time for yourself and your Lord Husband to leave the feast.”

Touched, Sansa smiled down upon him, causing him to blush a little.

“I should warn you, Joffrey will be giving you away today,” he said, rounding a corner. “The little worm insisted. Do us all a favour and…”

The boy King waited for them, a mean smirk pasted on his face.

“…smile…though if you chose another route, I’m sure only his mother would grieve.” Tyrion muttered.

In Joffrey’s hands, he held a cape bearing the sigil of House Stark - her Maiden Cloak, she realized. She was sorely tempted to rip the sword from Tyrion’s hands and plunge the tip of its blade down the King’s throat, but she forced herself to remain calm.

“Lady Sansa. You cannot imagine how glad I was to hear you have returned. With my beloved uncle, no less,” his wormy lips twisted further upwards.

“Your Grace, you humble me,” Sansa said dryly and stopped, afraid that if she said more, she would become too honest. Margaery moved to stand a small distance away, behind her future husband; a small, uncomfortable smile graced her lovely features.

“I insisted to my grandfather that I should be the one to give you away, seeing as your Father is not with us today,” Joffrey moved to sling the Maiden Cloak around her shoulders. “It’s a happy day for you though isn’t you? You’re marrying a Lannister! Soon you will have a Lannister baby. What a glorious day!”

Tying off the cloak, the King’s hands drifted down towards her breasts, a move hidden by the heavy material that covered her body.

Very, very softly, he continued his vile diatribe.

“I suppose it doesn't really matter which Lannister puts the baby into you. Maybe I'll pay you a visit after the feast. How'd you like that? You wouldn't? Well, that's all right. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros will hold you down.”

Unable to bear it a moment longer, Sansa reached up and grabbed his wandering hand, before squeezing down hard. Her strength was not at its full, but she knew it was coming back, especially as the boy began to pale from the agony she was deliberately inflicting.

“Your Grace, I encourage you to pay me a visit. All on your own even. You’ll find me waiting eagerly.” she leaned forward and whispered by the shaking boy’s ear.

The look of pure fright on Joffrey’s face was worth the risk she took. Carefully, Sansa curtseyed once again. “Thank you for offering me the honour of your…arm…today, your Grace.”

Close by, Tyrion, who had witnessed everything, was shaking from the effort of not laughing aloud. Not waiting for Joffrey to refuse her, Sansa twined her arm with the King’s own, tugging at the boy in such a way that the brat understood he had no choice but to follow…

“Your Grace, you seem upset. Do cheer up…as you say, it is indeed a _glorious_ day.” Tyrion offered cheerfully.

The small party approached the Sept of the Red Keep. Taking a deep breath, Sansa ascended the steps, and found her eyes landing immediately on Jaime, who stood at the other end, fussing at the ties of his red cloak.

The moment their eyes met however, Sansa forgot that the circumstances of their wedding, or any of the ugliness surrounding the Red Keep. Taking a breath, she walked forwards, unaware of the bright smile that kept on growing upon her fair countenance.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime/Sansa's ship literally sails. 
> 
> There is a wedding.
> 
> There are threats. 
> 
> Joffrey's the worst.

The problem with the robes he had been forced to don was just about everything. Despite having been born to a rich household, despite having always worn clothes fitting of his station, there was a difference between the soft leathers he preferred, and the stiff material he was now forced to endure.

Moreover, the cloak he had been made to wear was utterly impractical. The thing stifled at him.

With the entire court present to witness the travesty about to take place, Jaime could not be in a fouler mood. Cersei, as was fitting for her station, was positioned right in front of the congregation; her emerald gaze refused to drift away.

If her intention was to irk him further, then she was succeeding in spades, though her efforts were not half as effective as his father’s smug look of victory.

“I don’t _have_ to treat her with the courtesies she’s received thus far,” Tywin had informed him, seconds after Sansa had left her supper behind, practically untouched. “She is a prisoner in all but name.”

“Why then are you treating her so well?” Jaime asked despite the fact that he knew he probably wouldn’t like the answer.

“Because it’s easier to get someone to do something you want by treating them with respect, then by threatening them.” his father admitted.

“This seems to directly contradict that song all the minstrels pretend to enjoy playing all through the Westerlands.” Jaime said flatly. “Something about rains, and empty halls.”

“The gentle hand cannot last forever Jaime,” Tywin warned.

“Now we’re on firmer ground. Threats.” he had pushed himself to his feet, intent on following Sansa.

“Have you considered that I am also seeking to treat her well, not only because she’s saved your life, but also because my son is clearly in love with her?” Tywin questioned mildly. “Or even that I might like the girl? I’m not blind Jaime. She’s clever, and strong. She reminds me of…”

His father stopped for a second. “…your mother.”

“Did you ever think of that Tysha might have been to your liking, never mind her low birth?” Jaime couldn’t help himself.

“Who is…” Tywin’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. The knight found himself filled with old rage.

“Tyrion’s wife. The one you commanded to be brutalized and ravished by our men.” he said through gritted teeth.

“That was different. She was a whore.” his father seemed discomfited at the reminder.

“She wasn’t though, was she?” the knight realized he was pushing his father’s fury, but he could no longer hold himself back. “Had Sansa been naught but a low-born girl who had plucked me from the hands of our enemies, and had I loved her anyway, enough to marry her, would you have seen to it that she was raped by every last one of your guards?”

“Stop.”

“Or, would you have deigned to ‘lend her the protection of our name’ as you so put it.” Jaime demanded bitterly.

“I said _stop_!” Tywin thundered, standing up to face him. “I did what I did to protect our name and my son. Perhaps I haven’t always shown it, but Tyrion is my _son_ and I would not have him squander his life on some girl who didn’t deserve him.”

“So you had her raped?” Jaime asked in disbelief.

“I was trying to reach Tyrion. How else could I make him understand?” Tywin questioned. Before his eyes, his father’s jaw had trembled, and for the first time in his life, Jaime realized that the man standing before him was growing old.

“ _I made a mistake._ Is that what you want me to say? I made a mistake, and now my son hates me, and considers everything I have done since to be some conspiracy against him. I was a grieving, foolish man, who blamed a child for the death of my wife, and I made a mistake.”

It was the last thing he had expected Tywin to tell him. He could have lived to a hundred, and to hear his Lord Father admit that he had made an error in judgement would still have rattled Jaime to his core.

“Without Joanna, I allowed you and your sister to…” Tywin turned away from him, eyes squeezed shut with something that look horribly like grief. “Seven hells Jaime, the mistakes I’ve made in this life, do not even begin to even out the things I’ve done for the good of our name.”

Unsure of how to respond, Jaime stared foolishly at his own half-eaten meal in abject silence.

“Get out.” Tywin had said after a moment. “Go find Sansa before your sister does. Go.”

Those had been their last words to each other the night before.

Then having to watch as that _demon_ pawed at Sansa…it was a wonder the castle was still standing, he reflected in hindsight.

Nonetheless, the fact that he found himself siding with a demon…that was another thing that irked him. It worried him, the strange light that glowed in Sansa’s eyes each time she spoke of travelling North, and indeed, he was certain the vampire had been similarly discomfited. The Slayer was running headfirst into disaster, and seemed incapable of stopping herself…

Pycelle was right at the end of it, loathe as he was to admit such a thing. Even if they escaped the Citadel and the Sept, her destiny would not release its hold on her.

Just as he began to think of the ways in which he would have liked to kill Tomas, a murmur ran through the crowd. Instinctively, Jaime looked towards the door of the Sept, and found himself suddenly incapable of breath as he gazed raptly at the vision before him.

Sansa slowly approached the altar where Jaime awaited his bride. The woman was clad in the reds and golds of his house, which somehow, accented rather than clashed with her scarlet hair. Blue eyes gazed unwaveringly at him, as a genuine smile lit her features, making her impossibly, more beautiful in his eyes.

It was all too easy for him to forget that this was not the wedding either of them had envisioned.

Jaime smiled at her, forgetting that they were surrounded by those he now considered their enemies.

“Hello my love,” he said very softly, reaching to take her hand from Joffrey…who appeared a little pale and a little shaken.

If only he cared a whit.

“Hello yourself.” she replied.

The High Septon cleared his throat, looking disapprovingly down at the couple. No doubt, the man had views on his marriage to the Slayer.

Suddenly feeling extremely smug himself at the fact that they were both defying the Sept right under their literal noses, Jaime clasped tightly at Sansa’s hand.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” the Septon pronounced.

Jaime removed her maiden’s cloak and replaced it with the Lannister cloak he had been wearing on his own back. Without pause, he reached once again for her hand, which Sansa offered willingly.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever…”

Staring into Sansa’s eyes, the knight could not keep his heart from pounding in his chest as he took in the words. There was no doubt in his heart, he realized, that every last syllable was true. Someone wound a red ribbon around their hands.

“…cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity…”

The Septon kept on droning, though Jaime was barely listening as he grinned down at his new wife.

“I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days,” he vowed when the man stopped speaking.

“I am his, and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days.” Sansa answered loudly and immediately, squeezing at his hand. Her own smile had become a blinding thing.

“With this kiss…seven hells, I’ve forgotten the rest. Sansa, I love you.” Jaime laughed, and swept his arm around her waist before crashing his lips against her own.

The congregation clapped their approval, and if Cersei turned her countenance away to wipe something off her cheek, at that moment, Jaime could not bring himself to care.

***

“Married man eh?” someone said to him as he watched one lord after another vie for the honour of dancing with his wife.

His wife. Seven hells, Jaime thought as he observed the proceedings from where he sat. It had taken, in his opinion, a tremendous amount of grace on his part to relinquish Sansa’s hand to allow another man to lead her in a dance. If Tyrion hadn’t given him a warning glance - a silent plea that they ought to at least pretend it was a normal wedding feast - they’d all still be at an impasse.

The sun couldn’t set soon enough, Jaime thought with some impatience.

“Quite,” he said simply, unsure who he was speaking with. Everyone seemed suddenly very interested in conversing with the Kingslayer, if only because they were all surprised at the enthusiasm he had displayed in the Sept as he promised himself to Ned Stark’s daughter for the rest of his days.

“She’s a fine creature indeed. I do believe Harlon had been quite taken with her, poor boy…”

Jaime’s gaze swivelled about, to find that it was Ser Willym who was making a game attempt at conversation. The man found he had no idea what to say, though it seemed the older knight had already guessed at the squire’s ultimate fate.

“They never did find a trace of him. And he was a good lad,” the man continued. “I had to write his parents, tell them their son disappeared somewhere out in the country. Likely, he was caught and murdered in the night, I told them…”

“I’m sure he put up a good, honourable fight.” Jaime said lamely, trying not to remember the surprised look on the boy’s face as Sansa slew him.

“I’m an old man Lord Jaime. I should have done better than to bring up the sad things of the past,” Ser Willym bowed with genuine regret. “At your wedding, no less.”

“So leave.” Cersei said from behind, addressing the elderly knight. With a gulp, the man did as he was bid, allowing the Queen to seat herself beside Jaime. In her hands, she grasped at a goblet of wine.

“Does she know?” she asked directly, not taking her eyes off Sansa who was dancing stiffly with some nameless lord. Blue eyes fell upon Jaime, at first filled with curiousity, and then with wariness.

Deliberately, his Lady Wife turned her gaze away from brother and sister.

“She knows all there is to know,” Jaime said, not looking at Cersei, and praying she didn’t see the spark of fear in his eyes.

“She told me once, that you’ve revealed all our secrets to her. Yet I find it hard to believe…” Cersei followed his gaze.

Mustering his courage, Jaime finally turned to look at his twin.

“That she could know all our secrets, and still want this?” he questioned.

“Yes,” his sister blurted out, meeting his gaze in hurt confusion that melted quickly into anger.

They were speaking of separate things, he understood that, even if his sister did not. His sister, and likely, an eavesdropping Slayer.

Ever since the confrontation in their father’s study, when she had threatened to do everything and anything to sabotage their lives, Jaime had known that Cersei would use any and all secrets she had at her disposal.

Including what he had done to Bran Stark.

While it was too late to disrupt their Lord Father’s plans, the truth of what he had done to Sansa’s brother would surely turn her love for him, into utter and endless hatred.

“There are no secrets left between myself and my wife,” Jaime said calmly, reciting the script he had forced himself to memorize in his mind, words he had prepared against exactly this moment. “You on the other hand. Perhaps we ought to discuss the role you played in Pycelle’s recent machinations. Especially now that Sansa’s properly my wife and _your_ good-sister, perhaps it is time we all sat down and spoke frankly to one another…as families do.”

There was an implicit threat in his words that Sansa might not react mercifully to Cersei’s part in her recent troubles. A threat which he knew, would give his sister pause.

His twin stared at his bride in unmasked fury.

“You cannot possibly love her.” Cersei said after a moment. “Not the way you love me.”

“No Cersei, I don’t love her the way I love you…and make no mistake sister. I do. Love you, that is.” Jaime shifted to his feet. Something splintered in his heart as he regarded her. “But that is rather besides the point.”

Jaime studied his twin, memorizing the planes of her face, the emerald of her eyes and the fullness of her lips. He wasn’t lying - a part of him would always, always love her. But a greater part of his heart would never forgive Cersei for what she had tried to take from him not two nights ago.

“Younger and more beautiful…and stronger too. How could I possibly compete?”

There was something about the way his sister uttered those words that made Jaime’s spine tingle in alarm. “Cersei, whatever it is you’re thinking…”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking. You never will again.” she said silkily, rising regally. “Brother, I wish you and Lady Lannister nothing but happiness.”

The bitterness in her voice could have soured his wine.

There was a part of Jaime that wondered what it would have been like if things had been different…if all of this couldn’t have belonged to himself and Cersei. Catching sight of his father’s disapproving glare however, proof that the man had been watching the siblings as they conversed, he had his answer.

Working his jaw, Jaime turned to regard the revellers, and froze in annoyance.

Petyr Baelish had somehow made his way to Sansa’s side. Boldly, the smaller man had his fingers wrapped around the woman’s wrist, even as he whispered endlessly into her ear.

Uncaring how it might look to everyone present, Jaime stalked towards his new wife and rested a possessive hand upon her elbow.

“Lord Jaime,” Littlefinger bowed, his infuriating smirk never leaving his damnable face. “I was just telling Lady Sansa how she reminds me of her Lady Mother. In fact, I was expressing how her beauty outstrips Lady Stark’s own.”

“Kind words.” Jaime spoke through gritted teeth. “Lady _Lannister_ is indeed, the picture of beauty and grace. I am lucky to call myself her Lord Husband.”

Sansa inhaled sharply at his words, causing him to regret reminding her of who she now was. Regardless, as Petyr’s grin faded into something brittle, Jaime could not help but feel a stab of satisfaction.

“I do believe it is time I claimed a dance from my wife,” Jaime’s tone softened as he gazed down at Sansa. Overhead, the sun was finally beginning to sink under the horizon, and if his instincts were right, things were about to get very interesting.

“Of course.” Littlefinger’s gravelly voice sounded strained as he observed the married couple.

Bowing stiffly, Jaime drew the woman away, wrapping a firm arm around her slender waist.

“I don’t care for Lord Baelish. I know in my heart he had something to do with my father’s execution,” Sansa said softly. “You should have trusted that I would never have allowed him further liberties upon my person.”

Stifling his annoyance, Jaime replied, “I’ve never liked the man, and it has little to do with how he undresses you with his eyes, even now.”

Prettily, his little wife blushed, looking for all the world like an innocent maiden…though he had tangible, pleasurable proof that she was no such thing.

So what if some boy had taken her maidenhead? Sansa had never belonged to Harlon, the way she belonged to Jaime.

Within his veins, his blood heated at the recent memory of the vows they had both taken before the High Septon.

"Things have changed." Jaime said in a low voice, his fingertips grazing the nape of her neck. "I was yours since the moment I found you in Winterfell, and you, you've been mine for a long time yourself. But there have been oaths taken now, before Gods and men alike. I mean to keep these oaths - all of them. You are mine to protect, mine to love and only mine. For better or worse, I am a jealous man who will not abide another touching what is mine by right. Do you understand?”

“As long as you understand as well, that you belong to me,” Sansa said, her blue eyes narrowing as they flicked towards where Jaime knew his sister sat.

“Woman,” Jaime kissed her forehead. “Pay attention. I just told you I belong to you. And only you, mind.”

That elicited a fresh smile from her.

"I believe I shall rename my new sword Oathkeeper," he said quietly, clasping her hand against his chest. "In honour of my vows to you."

"The swords are fine gifts, I have to admit." Sansa nodded, before peering upwards at the night sky. "I wonder how much longer before..."

Whatever intimate moment the newlyweds had been sharing, was abruptly halted as Joffrey's drunken voice floated in their direction. The boy had spent the day drinking himself into an ominous state.

Tyrion had regaled an annoyed Jaime of the the events that had transpired prior to the ceremony - of the threats Joffrey had made against Sansa. Unlike his little brother, the former Kingsguard had not quite seen the humour in the tale, despite Tyrion’s best, albeit faltering efforts.

"Time for the bedding ceremony!" the brat declared. The Lady Margaery had long since left the festivities by this point.

"There will be no bedding ceremony," Jaime stated, moving to block Sansa from Joffrey's line of sight.

"Where's your respect for tradition, uncle? Come, everyone! Pick her up, and carry her to her wedding bed! Get rid of her gown, she won't be needing it any longer,"

Even Cersei had the grace to look embarrassed at her son's antics, Jaime thought as rage blossomed in his chest. Behind him, he could feel Sansa bristling with every added insult.

"Your Grace, I've already said..." Jaime hissed through gritted teeth.

"I command it." Joffrey sauntered before him, his face twisted in an ugly leer. "After all, you robbed me of the pleasure of her body. She was mine first, if you recall, but you stole her. You should be thanking the Gods that as your King, I am refraining from my rights to first night."

Jaime drew his dagger, to the collective gasp of everyone present; his twin paled rapidly at the sight. He didn’t think about it then, but if anyone had been inclined towards believing Ned Stark’s words on Joffrey’s parentage, in one move, he had dispelled much of that notion in the minds of everyone present.

"You seem to have no problem challenging young, unarmed children. Perhaps your Grace, it's time to see how well you fare against a grown man." Jaime was sick of the pretence that his son was anything but a cruel monster. He was tired of the Red Keep, and all its intricate intrigues, all its unspoken horror. "The way I hear it, you singlehandedly defended the Capital from Stannis, so you should have no problem facing me. Unless of course, you are not the warrior you say you are."

The King stared at him, jaw hanging open, but his inability to form words did not last long. Wild, unchecked fury took over, as he practically frothed at the mouth, screaming, "What did you say? What...did you...SAY!?"

Father and son glared at each other, neither willing to back down. Everyone had fallen deathly silent as the Kingslayer faced the King. Tyrion circled carefully around to his brother's side, face ashen with worry.

"Brother, put down the weapon..." he murmured. "He's not worth it."

Tywin marched between his son and grandson, eyes blazing with a fury that sent Joffrey stumbling back. In the face of his own father's displeasure, Jaime refused to allow himself to be moved. To his surprise, the Hand of the King turned to him with an approving nod; there was something that looked suspiciously like pride, in the way he regarded his eldest son..

There would be a moment long after he had left King's Landing, when Jaime would recall that one final exchange he shared with Tywin Lannister. With regret, he would think upon the words they had thrown at each other in their very last conversation. All of it too late of course.

"I believe we can dispense with the bedding ceremony, Your Grace. It would seem as well, you owe Lady…”

"Fire!" someone screamed.

The spell broken, everybody looked up, and indeed, ugly flames were reaching into the sky, from the direction of Maegor's Holdfast.

If Jaime had to guess, this was the distraction Tomas had spoken of, and indeed, he couldn't help but feel grateful in that moment. Another second, and likely, he would have been Kingslayer twice over, and an accursed kinslayer at that, so furious was he at Joffrey.

The boy meant nothing but harm. Jaime wondered how marred his bloodline was, that him and Cersei should produce such a creature.

The cry of fire was taken up by others. Courtiers and noblemen alike all began fleeing, openly running in panic. Clasping at Sansa's hand, Jaime could see that the Lannister guardsmen were trying to converge upon them but with little avail.

"My lady, I believe this is yours," Tyrion said, shoving something at Sansa. It was her own blade, it looked like. "We should hurry, time is short."

Without further delay, Jaime and his bride plunged into the surging crowd after his little brother. His own sword hung heavy at his hip, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice.

Twisting and turning down a little used path, they left the chaos behind as they descended the steep side of a nearby cliff.

"I found a note in my chamber this morning, advising me of where I am to bring you," Tyrion muttered as he hurried.

"The moment you have brought us where you’ve been told, leave us." Sansa warned. "The one who has offered his assistance. I cannot guarantee that he will not get...hungry."

Tyrion twisted his gaze upwards in shock. "You mean to say..."

"Our spider has more in his web than you can imagine." Jaime said grimly, leaping the final few feet unto solid ground. "I beg you to watch your back in your dealings with him."

"Aye." Tyrion looked troubled as they hastened towards a lit cove. Within, Tomas awaited the trio impatiently, alongside a man who looked as if he may have been a deckhand upon a ship.

"Take this," Tyrion drew a heavy pouch from his clothing and thrust it at his brother. “It’s not a lot, but it should be enough for the both of you to start anew in relative comfort."

"Funny. Varys instructed for two full bags of gold to be stashed in your cabin as well," Tomas called, though his voice sounded far from amused. "It's as if he doesn't think the both of you know how to exist outside the confines of wealth."

"Ah. You must be the mysterious vampire sent to save my brother and his bride." Tyrion looked fascinated and terrified all at once as they drew close.

"I'm here for the Slayer. If she chooses to drag the Kingslayer with her, that's her choice," Tomas replied dryly. "Had a good wedding then?"

"The very best. It was too bad you couldn't attend, what with it being held under the noonday sun." Jaime replied irritably. "Tyrion, you best go..."

"I'll see your brother safely back to his chambers. No one will even suspect he's had a hand in this." Tomas started, only to back away slowly as Sansa unsheathed her sword. Unceremoniously she pointed the blade at his neck, her stance barely wavering now.

"If Tyrion receives so much as a scraped knee in your care, I will come back and I will hurt you so badly, you will wish you were truly dead." she said very calmly. “I will cut you into a thousand little pieces, and I will force you to eat each and every morsel. Do we have an understanding?”

"Kingslayer, you're a lucky man." Tomas said approvingly with a wide grin. The genuine smile he wore made him oddly…human, even in Jaime’s eyes. ”Slayer, I swear, I will care for Lord Tyrion as if he were one of my own. I promise, I won’t even have a nibble."

"That's...you're joking." Tyrion looked a little wild-eyed, though he also appeared as though he wanted to ask the demon a thousand questions. "He's joking. Right? Do vampires joke?"

"Yes half-man, we joke." Tomas rolled his eyes, before gently pushing Sansa's sword aside. Already anticipating that the demon might consider getting far too close to the woman once again, Jaime shifted his body, placing himself between Sansa and the fiend.

"It's almost as if you mistrust your own wife." the other man mused.

"It's not her. It's you." Jaime said calmly. "I don't like you. I appreciate what you're doing for us, but that's all it is. I owe you."

“ _We_ owe you." Sansa spoke up, sounding peeved as she glared at her husband.

"Save it Slayer. Keep yourself safe." Tomas laughed. "And if you don't try to stake me the next time we see each other, I'll consider this debt fully repaid."

"Fair exchange." she shrugged. "Again, if you hurt Tyrion..."

"I know I know, Pain, prayers for death..." his smile grew wistful. "Get in the boat Sansa, I can hear men coming this way…are you sure you won’t let me come with you.”

“Yes Tomas,” she replied softly with a note of tenderness Jaime misliked to his core. “Save this city on my behalf won’t you?”

“A bit late for that.” the demon quipped. “But for you…for you I’d do just about anything.”

"Goodbye brother, I hope this isn't the last I see of you, although..." Tyrion hesitated, before reaching out to grasp his brother's arm firmly. Jaime crouched down on one knee and hugged him close, apprehensive not because of the vampire who promised to look after him, but because of the living who dwelled in the castle above.

"Take care of yourself." he choked out, before turning and clambering into the boat after Sansa.

Looking backwards over his shoulder as they pushed out into open waters, the knight watched as the vampire and his brother disappeared back into the shadows, wondering if he would in fact, ever see the Capital again. Or if he even cared to. He tried to imagine Tommen missing his presence and failed miserably.

Reaching for Sansa, Jaime squeezed at her hand, and found himself comforted simply by her nearness.

***

The cabin was not, in fact, an infested hole as he had imagined it would be. If anything, the space had been clearly furnished with care and attention. As promised, two bags of gold awaited them, tucked within leather saddles by their bedside. Rather than dresses, the clothing they found folded on a divan were fit for a young boy…or a very tall, slender woman.

On one hand, Jaime wondered if he had Varys to thank for their luxurious abode, but grudgingly, he came to the conclusion that it was likely Tomas’s affection for Sansa that had granted them as lavish a suite as what they were being presented with.

Soon after they boarded, the ship lifted its sails, and raised its anchors. Lumbering slowly out the port, Jaime observed as King’s Landing flowed away like a bad memory.

“I’ve never been on a ship before.” Sansa confessed behind him, looking slightly nervous as she let down her hair.

“It’s not very exciting. Mostly days of sitting about, doing nothing…though in our case, it’ll be weeks before we set foot on dry land.” Jaime grinned, turning to his bride. “Weeks, upon weeks, at that.”

The notion of the two of them being trapped for a long stretch of time inside this luxurious cabin, which also happened to hold a very generous bed, agreed rather well with him indeed.

“Do you think Tyrion’s safe?” she asked worriedly as she removed her borrowed jewellery. The fact that she was anxious for the sake of his baby brother touched him greatly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have entrusted him in the care of…”

“An undead demon who thrives on the blood of the living?” Jaime asked, closing the distance between the two of them.

“When you put it like that…” she made a face.

“Something tells me - distasteful thought though it is - that Tomas might find the ally he wants in my brother. And Tyrion, he needs all the allies he can find.” Jaime admitted. “Has it occurred to you, that the creature is as much as player in the game of thrones as Littlefinger is, or Lady Margaery, or even my own sister?”

Frowning uncomprehendingly, Sansa stood to face him.

“If all the vampire wanted was the blood of a few noblemen, he would have bled us dry a long time ago. Especially if its true what he told you - that he’s been in the city for centuries.” Jaime sighed even as his fingers began working at the bodice of her dress. “The demon wants power, not more undead soldiers. Same as every soul in that castle.”

“He told me he’s looking to help the people who need it most. The ones in Flea Bottom, the ones trampled under the feet of the nobility,” Sansa said thoughtfully, running her own hands along his arms.

“I’m sure he tells himself his intentions are noble. All of us do.” Jaime tried to keep the note of bitterness from his voice. “I find myself tiring of the subject of Tomas, and would dearly like to turn my attention to better things. Such as, our wedding night…”

“Oh, I suppose…” before she could tell him what she supposed, the man had pulled apart her wedding gown, leaving her naked as the day she was born before his heated gaze. Cradling the nape of her neck, Jaime kissed his wife as hungrily as a man starved, before he nudged her towards the bed.

Running his hands over her bare bottom, he murmured one word. “Wife.”

“Husband.” she breathed, undoing his own clothing now with all the speed she had been gifted with. As one, they collapsed onto the soft mattress.

Bare bodies colliding once again, Jaime’s kisses grew more fervent as his hands tugged and pinched at her nipples, eliciting moans from her chest. Drifting his touch further downwards, he found his young bride ready for him.

Easily, he rolled the both of them such that he knelt before her eager, waiting form. Shifting her thighs with one arm under each, he thrust himself fully inside of her, and watched in delight as her face slackened from the pleasure he gave to her.

Sansa pulled herself up and slung an arm around his neck; she moved in time with him, perfecting the rhythm they had come to build over months of learning each other.

“I love you,” she gasped, cupping his cheek just before she came.

“Good thing,” he answered, burying his face in her neck. “I love you too,”

When it was over, the two of them lay contented and entwined in each other’s arms. Feeling freer than he had in an entire lifetime, as they drifted out of sight of the Capital, Jaime Lannister fell asleep with Sansa Stark in his arms, with one thought lingering in his mind.

_He was hers, and she was his, and that was the only thing that truly mattered, in this world and every other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee. The end of a story that got away from me. 
> 
> If y'all stayed with it this long, I thank you for all your support. I mean it from the bottom of my little, dead-inside heart!
> 
> Oh and a side note: In this AU, in a chapter I don't intend on publishing, basically, Sansa is not the one who slays the Night King. Jaime - Kingslayer - is the Prince that was Promised. His murder attempt on Bran was borne of Bran trying to mitigate disaster (because Bran in this AU, is the Night King). RavenBran (haha Raisin Bran..er..) summoned Cersei to the Tower back in Winterfell (and by extension, Jaime), where he knew YoungBran would be climbing. He had hoped that Jaime could have ended his nightmare of being stuck in the Night King's mind before it got that far - unfortunately, that didn't happen. It's all very timey-wimey wibbly wobbly crap (hence it's not being published). Sansa, once again in this AU, is informed by RavenBran of Jaime's 'transgressions', and chooses to forgive him because she out of everyone, understands what happens when a greater power takes an interest in one's life.


	21. The Whole Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a summary of the rest of the narrative, which I didn't publish. It's a long weekend in Canada, and a recent commenter asked about un-answered plot points...so...here's all the rest of the story :)
> 
> Not all of it will make sense I don't think, but what the hell.
> 
> Also in hindsight forgot this makes it look like I actually updated when I didn’t. Ergh.

**What is going on in the North/Stannis during this Narrative...**

The story remains canon up to a point. Melisandre is still pulling Stannis’s strings, which results in him helping Jon out at the crucial moment of need with the Mance Rayder and his Wildlings.

However, after this occurs, as in canon, Melisandre tells Stannis that Winterfell will fall to him.

Stannis rides south, to a Winterfell held by enemy forces...

 **...ties with the fate of Theon in this series**  
Theon Greyjoy, after “murdering” Rickon and Bran, is captured by Bolton forces. Which in this narrative, has vampires in its folds.

Ramsay orders for Theon to be turned, under the assumption a fledgling would be easier to control. Big mistake of course - Theon turns everyone to his side by the time the Bolton forces retake Winterfell after the sacking.

He takes Ramsay prisoner, and in a twist, tortures the Bolton Bastard. The vampiric host takes up residence in the Stark crypts and literally start to bleed the North dry...

Meanwhile, the followers of the Red God (Thoros and Beric) are compelled to ride North by what they see in the Flames, not knowing the true nature of the beasts they are riding towards...

 **...what happens when Sansa lands at White Harbour?**  
Sansa finds out the fate of Robb and Catelyn - that is, that they’re slaughtered at the Red Wedding. In this narrative, it is the Tyrells who have committed this horror (if you recall from one or two chapters before the end, Sansa basically told Olenna that the Iron Throne does not in fact, hold the Seven Kingdoms).

There is a mention of Catelyn Stark’s bodyguard (her tall, blonde, female knight), and her horrible, cruel fate. Brienne doesn't get to live in this story.

Regardless, against her Slayer premonitory dreams, Sansa insists that Jaime and herself ride for Winterfell, because she’s only human, and she can’t stop herself from wanting to know what’s been done to her home. Throughout the journey, she begins to act more and more reckless, both from grief, and from becoming a true Slayer (“death is her gift”).

At Winterfell, they arrive at noon to find the place bereft of human life, and find Thoros and Beric imprisoned...with Ramsay. Beric's men have all been slaughtered and/or turned. In exchange for info, Sansa takes an oath to kill Ramsay to end his suffering, only to renege out of spite at the very last.

Jaime kills Ramsay, to keep Sansa's oaths for her, and it drives the first true wedge between them.

Freeing Beric and Thoros, they start to ride away, only to realize that the crypts are infested by Theon’s Brood. Sansa runs towards danger, only to have Jaime forcefully remind her that they are outnumbered as all hell and they have to ride while there’s light.

When they find shelter, the couple has their first, frank conversation about what Sansa is becoming.

**Thoros explains himself as they ride towards Night King**

Thoros and Beric talk about how “death is the enemy” in their religion. Sansa, Thoros knows (because he’s sorta magic himself in show/books), is instinctively “repelled” at first by the Slayer, whose gift is death.

They run into Stannis and his army on the way, and hide themselves to prevent questions. When Sansa wants to warn them that Theon and his bloodthirsty crew await them, Thoros tells the Slayer that Stannis has likely - on the orders of Melisandre - been burning people alive, causing Sansa to keep her peace.

At the wall, after some resistance from Jon (which includes an observation from Jaime that wonders if Sansa actually got on with her relatives in general), Maester Aemon steps in and tells Jon that Sansa is the Slayer, and the answer to their prayers.

Jaime finds out the fate of Tyrion (accused of killing Joffrey). Tywin doesn’t get killed by Tyrion however - though that’s not explained in this portion. He will die however, but not at Tyrion’s hand. This will be explained below.

In light of this revelation, Sansa realizes she’s never considered what Jaime gave up for her sake - his entire family. They have a true reconciliation, and she promises to start taking her own safety seriously. They make a pact to sail East, on the chance that they survive the war with the Night King.

**They travel North to Hardhome**

Jaime starts getting the first inkling of his own destiny, when Bran tries to reach him, calling him _King_ slayer over and over. It is better communicated to Sansa, what Jaime’s role is...along with what Jaime did to Bran, and why.

During the final battle, Beric falls and Sansa takes a heavy wound. Jaime takes Oathkeeper and kills the Night King, who as he dies, reverts briefly to Bran.

Sansa and Jaime finally talk about his heinous crimes, and Jaime offers to let her kill him. She explains that Bran has been trying to pull all their strings for a long time. He’d drawn Cersei to the broken tower, and had influenced Jaime into pushing Bran, because no Bran, no Night King. The war was never to be avoided however, because Baelish

Jaime and Sansa talk about the fact that their choices were taken from them, and if they would still choose each other, knowing everything as they did now.

_“Back in King’s Landing, as I set foot in the Great Sept, I understood that your father was right. I was a fool to pretend I did not want our lives joined. I promise you this: I would choose you now, over and over.” She kissed him softly, and added. “I’ve never said this aloud but...Jaime, I don’t blame you for all that has been inflicted on my family. I haven’t in a long time, and I still don’t, not even now.”_

_Wrapping his arms around her shivering form, Jaime grabbed her right hand and clasped it between their chests. “I don’t deserve you. I never have. But Sansa, I choose this path of my own free will - I choose to love you. Without you, there is no other life for me.”_

_For a brief moment, it was enough for Jaime to be assured that he had been forgiven by the woman in his arms, if not himself…which was, at the end of it, what he had always needed most._

_At the edge of the world, the lovers held on tightly to each other, as behind them, the living rejoiced, in the knowledge that they had received a reprieve from the eternal enemy._

 

 **Jon and the North**  
When they return across the wall, Northern delegates await them. They have come for the son of Ned Stark, because of the terror Theon has inflicted on the North. Rickon was executed by Smalljon Umber, upon hearing of Jon's efforts with the Wildlings, and Bran is nowhere to be found.  

Sansa refuses to lead the North as is her birthright. Instead, she chooses to honour her promise to Jaime to sail East.

As such, Jon is forced to accept Kingship of the North, and for a moment, Jaime reprises his role as a General, as they ride South once again, to face Theon. Marshalling their forces, they fend off the might of the undead as they crash around them in waves.

However, when they reach Winterfell, it becomes immediately clear that the castle is now truly abandoned - that Theon has fled. Where, no one knows.

In the crypts below, they find the mangled, mutilated and drained corpses of Stannis and Davos.

Melisandre shows up.

_“I don’t like you,” the Slayer said plainly and coldly. “I don’t like that you are clearly dogging Jon’s steps, or that you seemed to have somehow evaded the fate of your liege.”_

_“Sansa, stop…” Jon commanded. Sansa chose to ignore the man._

_Melisandre spoke, her voice calm as glass. “Your kind has no love for those who serve R’hllor.”_

_“That’s where you’re wrong,” the Slayer replied flatly. “I happen to like Thoros. It’s you that’s my problem. From what I’ve been told, you have a habit of sacrificing the living in service to your god.”_

_Thoros laughed aloud, for the first time sounding as if he meant his good cheer. Not since Beric had fallen, that he had displayed any form of true mirth._

Thoros follows Sansa and Jaime as they leave, though Sansa has misgivings of leaving with Theon still at large. She makes Jon promise to 'make them bleed' - that is, the people who were responsible for the deaths of Robb, Catelyn and Rickon. Jon promises that he will crush their enemies.

**The question of Bran…**

_“You should know that even now, as you slumber, somewhere North of the Wall, I’m still learning what it means to be a Raven. I’m still unfettered by my mistakes, in a cave under the earth,” Bran smiled wistfully at her._

_“Are you saying I might still save you?” she had asked hopefully._

_“No. You cannot. You must not. If you save me, the Night King will march, unchallenged into the lands of the living. At least this way, we have a chance…do you understand?” he asked her solemnly._

_The only thing she truly understood, was the price of not interfering. In keeping her silence and in staying her hand, she was condemning her younger brother to living out a eon-long nightmare…even if the rest of the world would be safe from the encroaching dead._

_“What happens to you if we succeed?” she asked._

_“My body will die. Immediately. Meera Reed will go home to her father, never truly understanding what happened, and never speaking of it ever again. Hodor will find his way back to Winterfell, and as always, he will keep his secrets.” he told her calmly. “One universe will end, and another will begin.”_

_Immediately, half a hundred questions flew through her mind, but Sansa’s time was up._

**Life in Braavos  
** Sansa and Jaime start a life in the Free City of Braavos. For a while, all is good. They buy a home, and plan a family.

To maintain their life, Jaime teaches the children of rich merchants the art of swordplay, while Sansa teaches others, how to read and write.

Thoros is a quasi ‘watcher’ for Sansa, but he spends most of his time (and Jaime’s gold) whoring and drinking. He also passes Jaime what news he can get, or Daenary’s rise with her dragons, and of Tywin Lannister extending an olive branch to Jon Snow.

The weird Mummer’s ’play’ seen in the GoT show exists in the universe, though it narrates the story of Empire of Dust up to the point of Joffrey’s death. Unbeknownst to Sansa, Jaime has seen glimpses of Arya hanging about the play.

Not wanting to raise her hopes, Jaime tries to find Arya, only to finally stumble on her, bleeding out by the banks of the river. 

Needless to say, he rescues her as she passes out, and definitively puts an end to their idyllic life in Braavos.

 ** **Arya, the Harbinger**  
** With the help of Thoros, Arya comes to, and assumes Sansa is a faceless man sent to kill her (because the Hound told her Sansa had died and all that).

When she finally calms down, she finally tells of what had befallen her after Sansa left King's Landing to go treat with Robb.

Syrio Forel was himself, a faceless man (this is obviously me riffing on a fan theory). He had told her to find his guild on Braavos, should she ever escape, and so she did (this is replacing the Jaqen H’ghar storyline in canon). In the Saltpans, the Hound becomes mortally wounded from a fight with some soldiers. Arya avenges him, but at the last, leaves him to die as part of her all encompassing revenge plans...not to say that she doesn't feel a little sorry she had done so.

In Braavos, her storyline plays out more or less like canon until Jaime appears.

The Waif appears at their home, and Sansa kills her.

Jaime and Sansa find the Faceless Men and tell them they will kill every last assassin if they try that shit again…and life would have gone on for the little family, if only…

 ** **...the Other side Hadn’t Come Knocking**  
** They return to their home, to find Tomas, Tyrion and Varys waiting.

Tomas points out that the couple obviously don’t consider their house a home, because he entered with no problem. Jaime and Sansa acknowledge, if silently, that the arrival of Arya is the cause of this.

The three new visitors tell Jaime and Sansa that King’s Landing has become the paradise of the undead, and that Tywin Lannister is finally dead.

Tyrion explains to Jaime and Sansa that Tomas rescued him from the Black Cells, and stopped him from murdering his own father. the Vampire saw him off on a ship towards Pentos…

While Tomas stayed in the city.

Cersei reaches out to Tomas, promising him that in her, he would have her champion for the poor and downtrodden. In return, all she wants is eternal life and strength.

Tomas, being at the end of it, soulless and power hungry in his own way, seriously considers it…

Only to be beaten at the punch by Theon, who arrives at the Red Keep and gives Cersei what she wants.

Cersei immediately murders her own father, and starts turning her guards. She terrorizes the city and turns them into her own buffet of blood, together with a demonic Theon. Margaery and the Tyrells are tortured and killed, leading Tommen (puppet King by this point) to kill himself. Baelish is turned.

Most of Tomas’s own men fall under Cersei’s new might. As a last resort, the vampire takes what’s left of his own men, and runs to Pentos with Varys, only to learn that Tyrion has made his way to the Dragon Queen’s side.

Over the course of a year, he spends time finding and convincing Jaime’s brother and the Daenerys that it was imperative they found Sansa, the Vampire Slayer.

 ** **The true End**  
** Realizing Sansa has a duty towards the living, they all - with Thoros and Arya - set off to join the Dragon Queen. They convince Daenerys that raining fire from her dragons on the whole city is not in fact, the answer because that just ends up in tons of innocents being killed. Tyrion is obviously the biggest part of this discussion.

(The whole Euron/Yara/Kingsmoot happens as it did in the show, without Theon. Yara brings her ships to Daenerys, who sails to Dragonstone. The Dornish angle is changed in that the Prince Oberyn never dies (because there is no trial by combat) - the Martells simply join the Dragon Queen because they don't like the Lannister Queen. Myrcella stays safely by Prince Trystane's side.)

Jaime secretly sends a raven Jon, to inform him of what is happening at King’s Landing, and where Theon is. He alone is not convinced they can take the city without an army.

The brave heroes (and antiheroes) sail back to King’s Landing under cover of night.

Meanwhile, Jaime and Sansa encounter marital issues - he’s annoyed that she’s clearly still attracted to Tomas, while she’s frustrated that they haven’t had a child.

Sansa and Tomas infiltrate the city together, during which time, Tomas confesses that he thought of her often, to which she tells him that she too, has had him on her mind. They wonder what could have been and its obvious what they share has never been strictly platonic.

Then Tomas drops a bomb on her - Sansa’s already pregnant, though it is too early to show or for her to know. It’s a creepy vampire thing where he can smell it on her. He tells her truly, that he would never hurt her or turn her (which he considered) - not now at least, that she’s to be a mother. Sansa realizes - as she would of course - that her life and heart lies only with Jaime Lannister.

They hurry back to their hideout near the docks, only to find out…

While this is occurring, Jaime is taken by his sister’s gang of demons. He’s brought before her, and taken to her chambers. They have a conversation, where Jaime tells her that she had become a monster even before she became a soulless demon.

(It is mentioned that Euron - who unwisely showed up in King's Landing to complain about Yara - rots in the dungeons, slowly being tormented to death by Theon)

Before Cersei can turn her brother so that he would be her eternal consort, there is a distraction. Arya, who had followed Jaime, has caused a ruckus down in the commons by using her Faceless skills). While the court and Cersei deals with the issues, Arya liberates Jaime, though they’re trapped in the Red Keep.

Thoros, Sansa and Tomas arrive at the Red Keep to rescue Jaime, together with what men they have, and what vampires he still has on his team.

They fail pretty miserably.

They’re taken before Cersei and Theon, both of whom want to kill Sansa - especially since Cersei realizes the Slayer is about to bear Jaime's child. Jaime to pops out at the last from where he’s been hiding, to try to save his wife and his child.

Arya is horribly injured in the scuffle.

They’re saved when dragons appear ride outside the Red Keep, and literally begin to blow shit up.

Sansa faces Theon, whose forces begin to desert him in the face of such terror, while Jaime battles his twin sister. Theon turns at the last to try to attack Jaime, causing Cersei to become distracted. The Queen stakes Theon, only to find herself dusted by Sansa. 

Heartbroken, Sansa returns to Arya’s side….Tomas offers to turn Arya, to save her. Against Jaime’s and Thoro’s advice, Sansa agrees…

Meanwhile, Jon has shown up at the gates of the city, to find the living allowing them passage. The forces of the North destroy the remaining undead. Baelish one of the escaping vampires, ends up getting dusted by a nameless soldier, and forgotten forever.

In the aftermath, Daenary’s takes the Iron Throne (and what’s left of the Red Keep). Tyrion resides as Hand of the Queen.

The King in the North and her start courting.

Jaime and Sansa find a turned Arya, much more vicious, much more bloodthirsty. Tomas is her mentor…but for how long?

Regardless, the Stark vampire assures her sister she would never touch any of her children, or grandchildren, etc.

In accordance with Tywin’s wishes while he lived, the Slayer and Kingslayer retire West, to Lannisport…where they have children, and more than that, with the help of Thoros, they devise a way to find potential Slayers, in order to get to them before the Sept and Citadel find them, to guard against the ways Slayers are mistreated in the future.

**The End. No, seriously.**


End file.
